


What's the Time, Mr. Wolff.

by kiyala



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Backstory, Angst, Big Bang Challenge, F/M, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-15
Updated: 2011-02-15
Packaged: 2017-10-15 16:35:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 56,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/162746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiyala/pseuds/kiyala
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames is a master thief, and Arthur is the jaded son of a rich businessman, stuck in a life he doesn't want. On a heist to steal artwork from Arthur's family home, Eames steals Arthur instead, and leads him into the world of shared dreaming. Finding their places in the world as mind criminals is easy. Figuring out how they fit together—and understanding themselves along the way—is not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the first round of inception_bang on LJ. Original post can be found [here](http://community.livejournal.com/shannys_corner/98766.html) with illustrations by platina

  
_  
**Part One.**   
_   
  


  
_(give me something to believe in.)_   


 

Sometimes, it feels like the bar is filled with more smoke than air. He exhales slowly, watching the smoke coil above his head, twisting and bending in the gentle breeze that blows through the open windows, before it joins the cloud that’s settled above the tables. He thinks idly that there mustn’t be a smoke alarm installed here; it simply wouldn’t be any good for business to be serving drinks to the background noise of beeping alarms. And a _no smoking_ sign? The owners might as well set fire to the bar themselves.

“You’re late,” he says, looking at the bowl of peanuts he is quickly finishing. He takes a sip of the bourbon sitting on the table before him and slowly, almost lazily, looks up. “Still. It’s good to see you, Yusuf.”

“Blame the cat,” says Yusuf in explanation, taking a seat after placing his bottle of beer on the table, shaking his head at the offer of a cigarette. “Nice to see you’re not in prison yet, Eames.”

“I’d imagine so.” Eames extinguishes his own cigarette as he smiles at a private joke. “That cat of yours thinks she’s the queen of your lab.”

Yusuf smiles at that too, taking a long gulp from his bottle. “Well. She isn’t named Rani for nothing, no? So, I’m guessing you didn’t call me out here to talk about cats. You have a new plan.”

Eames’ lips curl into a smile and he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “There’s a rumour that the Wolff family has an art collection worth hundreds of thousands of dollars, have you heard?”

Yusuf raises his eyebrows, and glances around them. Leaning forward as well, he lowers his voice. “And have you heard that they have one of the strictest teams of security personnel surrounding their estate? Forget about getting out alive with those paintings, how do you even plan on getting _in_ without being shot in the head?”

Eames’ smile simply grows, which Yusuf finds terribly worrying. “I’ve been doing a bit of research regarding that, actually. I do believe I have most of it covered. There’s just the matter of slipping by anybody that happens to be in the way. Butlers, maids... you know how I am with hurting people. That’s where you come in.”

Yusuf shakes his head emphatically. “Not a chance. This is foolish, Eames. It’s not going to work.”

“I’ll pay you up-front. Does that make you feel any more inclined?” Eames hides his smile by taking another sip of his drink, watching the gears turn in Yusuf’s mind, leading to the answer he already knows he will get.

“Okay, fine. But you pay me tomorrow. Do you want the same as usual? I’ll even make some extra, free of charge, because I like my friends being alive.”

“You’re a good man, Yusuf. A very good man.”

“And you, Eames,” Yusuf replies, taking a longer sip from his bottle this time, “are a terrible man. I’ll have everything ready for you in two weeks. Please do more research if you can. If not to dissuade you, then to make sure you have at least _some_ chance of walking out alive and not behind bars.”

Eames laughs at this, genuinely amused. “You’re only this concerned for my welfare because I’m such a good customer.”

Yusuf doesn’t deny it. “Over the years, I’ve learned to look out for my investments. It just so happens that you are the boldest person I know.”

“Which makes me the most successful,” Eames finishes with a grin.

With business out of the way, they continue their conversation like the old friends that they are.

There’s a good reason Eames likes this bar as a meeting place. The regular crowd consists of mafia thugs and con-artists, from the unapologetically corrupt gang leaders to the rookies still testing the waters. Compared to the majority of the conversation around them, anything Eames and Yusuf plan between them is tame. The surroundings allow them to blend in, unnoticed between the illegal gambling on a table to their left and a quickly escalating scuffle, three tables to their right.

By the time the first few tables are knocked over, Eames and Yusuf are already gone, leaving no sign of ever having been there. Just as he knows how to blend, Eames knows when to leave. It’s all part of not getting caught. All part of being a master thief.

 

•

 

“Arthur, are you coming or not? I will not be late to this dinner.”

He sighs, looking up from his book. Snapping it shut, he stands and walks to the door. He’s already said it three times, but of course his excuses won’t be acknowledged until they’re made to his father’s face.

“I’m sorry. I’ve got another migraine coming on, so I’m staying home. Send my regards.”

His father frowns, disapproval etched into the deep lines of his expression. He says nothing for a long moment, and Arthur fears that his bluff has been called, but in the end, the old man grunts in acquiescence. “You wouldn’t get so many damn headaches if you stopped playing with those stupid trinkets of yours. At your age, your brother was already married.”

Arthur’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t say a word. Not until his father and older brother are on their way to another mind-numbing social dinner in the shiny black Mercedes. Then, sitting back at his desk in his own room, he mutters under his breath, “fuck you too.”

It isn’t that he resents being compared to his brother, which he only does sometimes, but there are things he knows Phillip can do that he will never. Like inherit the position of CEO of Wolff Corporations, which Arthur honestly doesn’t care much about, anyway. Like get married, a fact that isn’t too bad in itself, except that he is fairly sure that if he ever gave the real reason for his lack of interest in all of his potential partners, he’d immediately be disowned.

He runs a hand through his hair and sighs before he turns back to the assortment of tools on his desk, picking up a cog with a pair of tweezers and attaching it to the half-made watch sitting before him.

He’d become interested in watch-making as a boy, when his grandfather had told him that their large family company had started off as a modest watchmaker’s shop on a street corner.

While his great-grandfather’s interest had become more focused on the money, Arthur has always loved the comforting feeling he gets from the precise, almost mechanical movements in pulling apart a watch and putting it back together. There is a satisfaction that comes with finishing a time piece, whether it is one from his own collection of pocket watches, or a wristwatch, or even the large grandfather clock standing against the wall.

Wolff senior has no appreciation for this part of their family’s history, believing it to be something of the past and thus absolutely irrelevant to their business now.

Arthur is an excellent businessman, and if he lacks the flair his older brother has, he is much more thorough, more interested in the _specifics_ of how everything works. Somehow, this just makes his father even less tolerant of Arthur’s hobby, claiming that if he’d redirected his passion toward the family business, they’d all be much better off.

Not that Arthur has ever paid his father’s opinions very much attention, which is the main reason he’s never been the favourite son. He has a high-paying job that puts him in charge of a branch of the Wolff conglomerate that runs one of the biggest property development firms on the international stage. Regardless of what his father thinks of him, he commands a great deal of respect from his position and provided he makes his own money and has the time to do what he actually enjoys, Arthur doesn’t give a damn what anybody else thinks.

Once he finishes his current project, a clock face inserted into a miniature clock tower that sits on his desk, Arthur takes a book from the shelf and settles in his comfortable, stuffed, armchair. He enjoys novels, but his real interest lies in non-fiction. He collects textbooks, articles, and encyclopaedias, covering a vast range of subjects that he reads with enthusiasm, soaking up whatever facts he comes across.

Tonight he reads about paradoxes, both mathematical and natural, about Necker cubes and Penrose triangles. He falls asleep in the chair before he even realises that he’s tired, and dreams of a world resembling some of the Escher paintings in the book, with stairs that lead nowhere and floors that become walls.

 

•

 

The guards patrolling the perimeter of the estate are disappointingly easy to deal with and it takes Eames no more than five minutes to sneak up to the mansion and slip around the side, finding a good ledge to climb up.

Of course, the offices of Wolff Corp are located elsewhere, along with the bulk of their money, and breaking into _there_ would be an entirely different story, even though Eames thinks he’d be capable, given the time and resources. Still, it doesn’t mean security _here_ is lax enough that there isn’t a single electronic security device. Not that Eames is complaining, of course.

He slides the large window shut behind him, finding himself on the second floor of the mansion. The corridor stretches out before him, the doors shut except for one. It opens to the only room with lights still on and Eames frowns, glancing around him as he creeps carefully, soundlessly, closer. The mansion is meant to be empty tonight; he’s picked it especially for the fact that the Wolff family should be attending a banquet at the Fischer estate.

He glances into the room and relaxes. The only occupant is of a much smaller build than him and, conveniently, asleep. Eames notices a large painting on the wall and enters the room, careful not to disturb its sleeping occupant.

He stops in his tracks.

Up close, Eames recognises the sleeping man from a handful of pictures his extensive research has yielded him about the younger of the Wolff brothers. Arthur, he remembers the name distantly, his mind far more concerned with appreciating the way he looks when sleeping.

The Arthur Wolff in the photos, usually taken while he’s at some kind of function with his father and brother, is all tailored suits, slicked-back hair, and frowns that make him look like he’d rather be elsewhere. Asleep, it’s an entirely different story. The frown is notably absent and in fact, he looks so relaxed that it’s difficult for Eames to believe he has _ever_ frowned. His position; head resting against the back of his chair and the book still open in his lap, leads Eames to conclude that he’s fallen asleep by accident. His hair is messed, falling around the sides of his face and sticking up at the back. While his trousers are still far more formal than anything Eames would wear at home alone, he wears a simple, pale blue, polo shirt that is open at the collar.

Eames swallows hard and tries to tell himself that falling in love with someone based on how they look asleep is not a very sensible thing to do. He tries.

Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a globe of a faintly blue gas, and then a mask to cover his mouth and nose. This is Yusuf’s creation; a knock-out gas that leaves people unconscious for hours after they inhale it. It’s the reason behind a pile of snoring guards outside the mansion, and after Eames makes sure he’s not going to inhale any himself, he flicks the lid open and throws it at Arthur’s feet.

If it’s even possible, Arthur relaxes further, falling into a deeper sleep. His shoulders slump a little and his head lolls to the side. Eames watches him carefully for a few moments—just to make sure Arthur’s completely asleep, he tells himself—and covers up the globe as the gas dissipates after the fifteen seconds it is designed to linger before reacting with the air. The mask and empty globe go back into his pouch and Eames steps towards Arthur, hefting him over a shoulder and looking out into the hall carefully before he leaves the estate. No paintings, but a very handsome man, Eames thinks to himself with a wry grin. Not bad.

He gets as far as sneaking Arthur into his apartment, tucking him into the bed, and making some tea, before the gravity of what he’s done truly registers.

His hand immediately goes to his phone.

“Yusuf?”

“Eames? You’re not in prison are you?”

“I’m afraid I’ve done something extremely foolish. Heat of the moment. You know how it can be.”

“God—you didn’t _kill_ anyone, did you?”

“No, no. I… I think you should come over to see what I’m talking about. I’m not quite sure words would do him any justice.”

Yusuf’s tone is filled with dread when he replies, “I’ll be there in five.”

He actually arrives there in three minutes, which is impressive since he lives fifteen minutes away by car. Eames lets him in and speaks quietly.

“This way. Quiet, we don’t want to wake him.”

“Who?” Yusuf demands, and immediately wishes he hadn’t asked. “Oh god. No. Please tell me this is a joke. Please. You did _not_ kidnap Arthur Wolff.”

“I’m afraid I did,” Eames replies, scratching the back of his neck. “I just… saw him sleeping there when I entered the mansion and before I knew it…”

Yusuf sighs. “You didn’t steal any paintings, did you?”

“ _Look at him_ , Yusuf. He’s a bloody work of art on his own.”

“Eames, you _cannot_ simply kidnap people just because you like the way they look when they’re asleep. Look, maybe we can make some use out of this. There might be some information in his head that we can sell.”

“I’m not an extractor,” Eames says, raising an eyebrow.

“No, you’re a bloody impulsive idiot who kidnaps rich boys and doesn’t know what to do with them.”

“I have _plenty_ of ideas of what to do with him.”

“You know what I mean. Give this a go, Eames. You may not be an extractor but you’re a damn good forger and that must at least make it _easier_ to get information out of him.”

Eames considers this for a moment and looks up. “Do you have any of that wonderfully sharp sedative of yours on your person, by any chance?”

Yusuf smiles, producing a small bottle from his jacket pocket. “Always. Who will you impersonate?”

“I’ll try his brother first. I somehow doubt he’ll be very open with his father. Either way, this will be one hell of a gamble. I haven’t done nearly enough research on the family relationships, here.” Eames reaches for the folder on the table containing his research on the Wolff family, flicking to the page on Phillip Wolff. “Good thing I like gambles, eh? If all else fails, a pretty girl might do.”

Yusuf shakes his head. “You take a perverse enjoyment in confusing people’s sexuality, Eames. Get your PASIV out and get comfortable. I’ll hook him up once he’s woken from the previous sedative, or it’ll be impossible to judge how long he’ll be out.”

“I’ll wake myself up once I’ve gotten enough information. Keep us under until then. And if he has militarised projections, I’ll be out of there quickly enough. Just keep him sleeping like a baby.”

“I don’t charge you half as much as I should for making me put up with you,” Yusuf says, shaking his head.

“That’s what friends are for, aren’t they, mate? Help yourself to my tea if you’d like.”

“Good. I plan to.”

 

•

 

 _…stirring… sure I saw him move…_

…sure?… put him under?…

The voices are unfamiliar, and Arthur frowns for a brief moment before a wave of calm washes over him and he feels himself relaxing, slipping…

He’s in the mansion, sitting at the piano. It’s a polished, black, grand piano that produces a wonderfully rich sound. A book of sheet music sits open before him, notes dancing up and down the staves; semibreves to semiquavers, combining to form a pattern, a song that Arthur hums under his breath, testing it out before placing his fingers on the keys.

The music comes to him effortlessly. It sounds familiar as he plays, like a combination of several pieces he’s heard or played. Before he can dwell on it for too long, he hears Phillip clearing his throat behind him.

He turns on the piano bench, finding his brother standing in the doorway, his posture straight and rigid, the way it is in front of the cameras, in front of their father, the way it is whenever he thinks someone might be watching him.

“Phillip,” he acknowledges with a nod.

“Nice playing,” comes the reply.

Arthur’s expression darkens. “You don’t have to pretend. I know that you think it’s a waste of time. You’re just like him. Unless it makes you money, it’s not worth your time.”

Phillips eyebrows rise at this. “Father—”

“Oh, please,” Arthur cuts in. “I don’t want to hear about how wonderful you think he is. If you’re going to feed his massive ego, do it where he can hear you.”

Phillip raises his hands defensively and gives him a look of exasperation. “Fine, fine. I’ll leave you alone.”

“Good.” Arthur turns his attention back to the piano, continuing to play the piece.

When he reaches the end of the three-page piece, he’s a little surprised and extremely pleased to realise that this is the most he’s enjoyed playing the piano in a very long time.

“Oh, excuse me, darling,” a feminine voice interrupts him this time. He glances over his shoulder to see one of the maids in the room. She’s blonde with curly hair, and he simply nods at her and turns away once again.

She comes closer as he resumes and speaks again from behind his shoulder, her voice husky. “You play wonderfully. I’m sorry, I just happened to be cleaning outside and wanted to tell you.”

He turns to her again, and this time he smiles. “Thank you.”

She smiles back, her eyes lighting up, and places a hand on his shoulder. “How long have you been playing the piano for?”

Arthur immediately tenses beneath the touch, but if she’s noticed, she doesn’t show it. “A long time. …If you don’t mind…”

He shrugs her hand off his shoulder as casually as he can and she murmurs an apology. He thinks she leaves then, but doesn’t bother to check.

Half an hour passes as he sits at the piano, uninterrupted while he plays and plays again.

He considers taking a break from the piano when a man wearing a well-tailored suit and carrying a briefcase walks into the room.

“Sorry to disturb,” he says with a British accent, “I’m here to speak with Phillip, but I’m told that he’s stepped out for a moment. Is it okay if I wait in here?”

Arthur turns with a light frown, but stops short when he sees the man leaning against the wall, watching him with a look of clear appraisal.

“R-Right, sure,” he says, eyes unconsciously widening as he takes in everything he can about the man. “Fine with me.”

The man smiles, and the first thing Arthur notices are those _lips_ , wonderfully plump and pink and—Arthur looks elsewhere when he realises he’s been staring. Unfortunately for him, he only ends up looking up into the man’s eyes, which are an attractive colour between blue and green, and impossible to break contact with.

“I-I’m sorry. What did you say your name was?”

“How rude, I didn’t introduce myself.” The man smiles and walks toward him, holding out a hand. “Call me Eames.”

They shake, and Arthur’s skin tingles where their hands meet. “A… pleasure to meet you, Mr. Eames. I hope my brother doesn’t make you wait too long.”

“I hope he does,” Eames replies with a secretive smile and Arthur coughs, feeling his ears go pink, unable to stop his lips from curving into a smile. “Do you play the piano, Mr. Wolff?”

“Yes.” Arthur suddenly feels like an awkward teenager, trying to impress someone. “Do you… uh…”

“I’d love to hear you play,” Eames replies, his smile growing. “May I sit here?”

Arthur slides over so there’s space on the piano bench, and looks away, biting back another smile when he feels Eames’ arm brushing against his. He feels the man’s gaze on him and he looks back at him, giving Eames his best calm smile before placing his fingers on the piano keys once again.

He plays better than the times before and he hears Eames murmur in appreciation here and there throughout the piece. By the end, he has no hope of hiding the smile on his face and Eames claps loudly. Arthur laughs in delight, even taking a small, comical, bow.

“You’re amazing,” Eames murmurs, and their shoulders are touching and Arthur thinks—or maybe he hopes—that he’s not just referring to the performance.

Arthur can’t help but lean in, especially when Eames is so close, so obviously attracted to him, and they’re alone together, Eames’ breath on his lips, his cologne intoxicating.

Eames licks his lips slowly, ready to close the gap, but an old, angry, voice interrupts them.

“What the _hell_ do you think you’re doing?”

They both move apart, sitting up straight, and the colour drains from Arthur’s face.

“Father—”

“Mr. Wolff, sir,” says Eames, standing up and putting himself between father and son, “I can explain everything. Please. Just a small walk outside to clear everything up—”

“Who are _you_?” the old man spits, scowling.

“I’m a friend of your son—your older son. Please. Let’s just go outside.”

Wolff senior still looks furious, but now it’s directed at Eames instead. “You’d better have one hell of an explanation, boy. Let’s go.”

They leave the room, with Arthur sitting at the piano by himself. Eames allows himself a glance over his shoulder on the way out, locking gazes with Arthur, and feels his heart break at the look of utter resignation on the younger man’s face.

 

•

 

Eames opens his eyes, ripping the IV line out and winding it back into the case. He shakes his head and Yusuf looks up, eyebrows raised.

“Keep him under,” Eames mutters, pacing back and forth. Running his hands through his hair, he sighs. “Jesus Christ, Yusuf, this is messed up.”

“Didn’t like what you found?” Yusuf guesses. “Or did your blonde bombshell not work as well as you’d hoped?”

“She wasn’t his type,” Eames replies with a small shrug. “Wrong gender.”

“Oh,” Yusuf nods understandingly. Then he pauses. “…Eames. Don’t tell me you did what I think you did.”

“That I ended up discarding the disguises and being myself?” Eames asks.

Yusuf shuts his eyes with a frown and exhales slowly, doing all he can to stay calm. “You’re an idiot, Eames.”

“Yes, we’ve already covered that, thank you.” He stops beside the bed, looking down at Arthur’s sleeping figure. Brushing his fingers lightly over Arthur’s cheek, he sighs heavily. “He’s amazingly repressed. We were about to kiss, and his projection of his father stopped us.”

“Kiss?” Yusuf sputters. “Bloody hell, you move fast.”

Eames smiles without humour. “I _do_ know how to charm people, Yusuf. Part of the job.”

“And this is all just part of the job, is it?” Yusuf asks, “What did you find out from him? That you can blackmail him with his sexuality?”

Eames’ expression darkens. “I’m not going to do that to him.”

“You have a very confusing moral compass, Eames.”

“I’m well aware of that.”

Arthur stirs and Yusuf increases the dose of sedative. “This is going to keep him out for another half hour, so you can unhook him from the PASIV. I’m leaving. You have that long to decide what you’re going to do with him, because you can’t just keep him unconscious like this until you get a good idea.”

Eames nods reluctantly, patting Yusuf’s shoulder in thanks. “Give the cat my regards. Your uncle, too.”

He lets Yusuf out and checks the time. He has twenty-five minutes to figure out what he’s going to do with Arthur Wolff, and he still has no idea.

When twenty five minutes becomes twenty, an idea suddenly comes to him. Getting to his feet, he takes out the PASIV once again and begins to rearrange the furniture.

With five minutes left, he ties Arthur loosely to a chair, and then sits down in the one opposite him.

He checks the time again and watches it steadily tick away. Exactly half an hour after Yusuf’s final dose of somnacin has entered Arthur’s system, Eames looks up and watches his eyes flutter open.

 

•

 

Arthur wakes to a place he does not recognise. There is a man sitting before him, watching intently, which makes him frown a little. There’s something he can’t quite place, because the man looks familiar. He’s about to ask when he realises he’s tied up, and instead swears under his breath.

“Did you sleep well?” the man asks amiably, and his British accent tugs at Arthur’s memory.

“Did you drug me?” Arthur asks in return. “Untie me, damn it.”

“All in good time—”

“Are you holding me hostage?” Arthur asks, “Because you kidnapped the wrong brother if you’re planning on demanding some kind of ransom out of my father.”

The man raises an eyebrow at him and Arthur immediately feels uncomfortable about the insight in those sharp eyes. “You don’t think he’d care?”

This is not something Arthur intends to discuss with an utter stranger; particularly one that has him tied to a chair. Despite this, he growls under his breath and replies, “I’m replaceable. It’s Phillip you’d want.”

“Do you resent him for that?”

“What are you, my kidnapper or my therapist?”

“Neither, to be honest. Well admittedly, I did bring you here, but I’m not planning on keeping you here against your will.”

Arthur frowns. “Then why am I tied up?”

“I’d just like you to stay where you are so we can talk. I’d like you to see something.” The man goes to a table, opens a case and reels two tubes out of it.

“What is that?” Arthur asks, eyeing the device warily.

“Ah, so you aren’t familiar with this at all. That would explain a few things. Please relax, and you won’t feel a thing. Look, I’ll even do myself first.”

Arthur watches in confusion as the man inserts the needle at the tip of one tube into his own wrist. Nothing happens, but it doesn’t make him any less tense when the same is done to him.

Reaching into the case, the man’s fingers hover over the yellow button in the centre and with a final smile, he says, “sweet dreams.”

Arthur wants to frown and ask what that means, what the hell is happening, but the button is pressed and he feels his eyes slipping shut.

When he opens them again, he’s back in the mansion. He looks over at the man beside him, suddenly remembering him.

“ _Eames_.”

Eames gives him a satisfied grin. “You remember me.”

“I saw you here before—what is this?”

“You’re dreaming, Arthur. Do you remember the room we were in before? The chair that you were tied to?”

Arthur frowns and, slowly, nods.

“We’re still there,” Eames explains. “This isn’t real.”

“Dream sharing?” Arthur asks, eyebrows raised in realisation. “We’re in… my head? I thought only the military used this.”

Eames smiles. “That’s what the public is led to believe. With sufficient funds and training... well, dreaming is becoming much more popular. It is, for one, a wonderful way of gaining information that would otherwise remain hidden.”

Arthur’s eyes narrow. “Right. Just like you did before, with—” His eyes widen as the rest of the previous dream comes back to him and Eames chuckles lightly.

“I take it you remember just what it is that I’ve managed to find out about you, Mr. Wolff.”

The colour drains from Arthur’s face and he shakes his head. “If you’re going to blackmail me, Mr. Eames—”

“I don’t plan on doing anything of the sort. Perhaps I’ve found out that you tend to prefer your girls to be… well, not girls, but—”

“Wait,” Arthur interrupts with a frown. “Let me get this straight. You have a piece of information that can absolutely destroy me and you’re just letting me walk away with it? So what, I’m going to be in your debt because of this?”

Eames sighs. “No. You aren’t listening. I couldn’t care less who you like, and I’m not out to damage your reputation. So can you please accept this fact, so we can move on?”

Arthur blinks and nods slowly. “Fine. So why are we in a dream?”

Eames gestures to the mansion, empty but for the two of them. “When we met earlier, I also found out how shaky the relationship between yourself and your father and brother is. You’re at odds with them over the family business, and it made me think perhaps you’d like to see what else you’re capable of.”

“Dreaming?” Arthur asks with a raised eyebrow.

“It’s not just dreaming,” Eames replies. “There’s an amazing amount of freedom that comes with it. You’re opening your mind—not only to the people you share your dreams with, but to _yourself_.”

“Self-exploration, then,” Arthur says. “Finding out what you can do when you don’t have to adhere to the rules of the real world?”

“Exactly,” Eames nods. “And it’s much more fun when there’s a mark involved; someone you need to fool into believing they _aren’t_ dreaming.”

They walk down the hall and Eames indicates their surroundings. “This all looks real enough, but it takes very little for a dream to collapse. Part of the thrill, to be honest.”

“So how do you… trick them? To think that they’re in the real world?” Arthur asks.

“Research. The easiest way to trick someone is by understanding how they think, and how they feel. It let’s you predict how they’ll act.”

“Their personality,” Arthur says, understanding. “And their background. I suppose any sort of information would be helpful, but you’d need to go much deeper than what you could find out about them at face value to pull them into a dream without having them realise.”

“You learn quickly,” Eames says, sounding pleased. “The wonderful thing about working with the subconscious is that everybody is different. No matter how many times you do it, no two jobs will ever be the same. The thrill never fades.”

Arthur nods in appreciation, and Eames is satisfied to see the flicker of fascination in his eyes. It’s brief, but he knows he’s managed to get Arthur’s interest. All he needs to do now is make sure he stays interested.

“Come,” he says, leading the way up the stairs. “I’ll show you what fun you can have while you’re asleep.”

Eames doesn’t look back as he reaches the landing, and Arthur allows himself a brief smile before hurrying to catch up.

 

•

 

Arthur wakes with a sharp intake of breath. His eyes widen and a thrilling jolt running through his entire body at the mere sensation of being awake again. He feels the rope around him being untied and he looks up to find Eames grinning at him. “Did you enjoy that?”

“I…” Arthur finds himself struggling to describe exactly how amazing it feels. He shakes his head with an incredulous smile when he realises that he doesn’t have to, that Eames knows exactly how he feels without needing any explanation. “How long have we been out for?”

“Approximately ten minutes,” Eames replies, checking his watch. “Which gives us two hours down there, if I remember correctly. I’m making a cup of tea, would you like any?”

“One sugar and no milk, please,” Arthur replies as Eames puts the PASIV away. He leans back in his chair, which is now feels infinitely more comfortable when he actually has a choice in sitting on it. Ten minutes, he thinks to himself in wonder, suddenly feeling like an entirely different person. For starters, he already finds Eames much more agreeable after spending hours with him in the dream.

He begins to explore the apartment, fingers ghosting over the spines of thick folders filled with files, gaze skimming over an assortment of old newspaper articles. He finds a table with various poker chips, playing cards and dice, and steps closer. He remembers glimpsing Eames slip a poker chip into the pocket of his chequered pants and wonders if they have a particular significance to him.

“Do you like gambling, Mr. Wolff?” Eames asks from behind Arthur, holding their cups.

Arthur turns, accepting one and glancing back at the table. “I… don’t, really. I just noticed before that you have a poker chip in your pocket…”

“Very observant of you,” Eames replies, sounding pleased. “A colleague of mine insists that we use these… _totems_ , we call them. Something unique, something only we know intimately. That way, by checking the totem, you can be sure you aren’t in another person’s dream.”

“The poker chip is yours?” Arthur asks.

Eames nods, standing beside Arthur and looking at the table. “Take one.”

Arthur turns his head, not quite understanding, and Eames indicates the dice with a nod. “I’d rather you didn’t take another chip, and cards are too light and too easily copied. But a die would function well.”

“You said only the owner should know their totem intimately.”

Eames smiles. “I have more dice than I care to remember and I don’t know the specific weight and size of each individual one. Honestly, I wouldn’t be able to remember the one you’ve taken. You’re safe.”

Picking one up, Arthur cradles it in his palm and then rolls it, then picks it up and rolls it again. “Weighted. I should have known. No, thank you. I don’t need it.”

“It isn’t very polite to refuse a present, you know.”

“Present,” Arthur repeats disbelievingly.

“Yes, a present. Take it as a small token of my remorse for kidnapping you, however unintended.”

“How do you unintentionally kidnap somebody?” Arthur asks, finishing his tea and leaving the die untouched on the tabletop.

“I am, as you know very well by now, a thief,” Eames says plainly. Arthur nods and he continues. “I broke into your family mansion last night, intending on stealing some of those famously expensive artworks you collect. Then I saw you instead.”

Arthur waits for Eames to continue, but he doesn’t. There are many things left unsaid, that Arthur can’t be sure about. The one thing he _is_ sure about, however, is the dread he feels when he hears the next thing Eames says:

“I’m going to let you go, Mr. Wolff. I can’t keep you here with me when I shouldn’t have brought you here in the first place.”

It’s childish to protest, Arthur thinks to himself, especially when he’s protesting against being set free. So he simply nods and says nothing. Eames looks at him carefully, his gaze penetrating, but says nothing either, instead takes both of their cups into the kitchen.

“What time is it?” Arthur asks, realising all the windows have their blinds and curtains drawn and he has completely lost track of the outside world. For his obsessive checking of the time, he has absolutely no idea what hour or what day it is.

“Close to four in the morning,” Eames replies from the kitchen. “Even I’m not enough of a bastard to turn you out onto the street at this hour. Stay until tomorrow morning.”

Eames’ bed is large, soft and comfortable. It’s big enough for the two of them, but Eames has taken the couch, even lending Arthur a pair of pyjamas that look comically loose on him.

Under the covers, all Arthur can smell is _Eames_ and he’s far too tired to filter out the thoughts running through his mind of Eames leaning in close to him on a piano bench, of Eames’ pleased smile as he watches Arthur learn far quicker than he’d even expected. Before he can even question why these things matter to him, and why having the smell of Eames surround him feels so comforting, Arthur is already asleep.

 

•

 

Arthur wakes early the next morning, surprised to find Eames already in the kitchen, drinking coffee and making breakfast.

“Good morning, Arthur,” Eames greets with an easy smile and for a moment, Arthur is taken aback by how comfortable this feels, returning the greeting along with a _thanks_ when Eames slides a plate of food across the counter top.

It’s a simple breakfast of baked beans and eggs on toast, but Arthur enjoys it more than the lavish morning meals with his family. Mostly because of Eames, talking between mouthfuls, telling Arthur more than he strictly should about all of his past heists. Instead of being offended by the obvious disregard Eames has for the legal system, Arthur surprises himself by enjoying the stories and even going as far as to feel a little jealous of the excitement his own straight-laced life so clearly lacks.

When the time comes for them to part, Arthur doesn’t want to leave. Not that he admits it, of course, even to himself. His looks around the apartment one last time as Eames washes their dishes in the kitchen, and his gaze settles on the red die from before. He walks towards it, glancing towards the kitchen where Eames is humming to himself, unaware, and reaches out to pocket it in one smooth movement.

It’s a ridiculous thing to do, but Arthur thinks to himself, _I’m stealing from a thief_ , and it thrills him in a way he’d never even desired just a day ago. Eames, when he returns, makes no indication that he’s noticed the die has gone missing and is all polite smiles as he sees Arthur out.

“I could turn you in to the police,” Arthur says at the door, hands in his pockets in an attempt to look more casual than he feels. “You’re a thief after all. And a forger. And probably other things, too.”

“You could,” Eames replies simply. Arthur waits for him to say more, but he doesn’t. Eames unlocks the door, hesitates and then claps Arthur on the shoulder. “Goodbye, Arthur.”

“Thank you, Mr. Eames,” Arthur replies, and leaves, shutting the door behind him before Eames can ask what he’s being thanked for.

He doesn’t need to. He already knows.

 

•

 

“Oh. There you are.”

There is no greeting, and no concern. Despite leaving Eames’ apartment at a little past eight, it’s well past noon when Arthur returns to the Wolff mansion, hands in his pockets and a frown on his face, slipping back into this world of money, inscrutable masks, and discontentment.

Phillip stares at him, not asking where he’s been for the past several hours with no way of being contacted, but why he isn’t at work yet. Arthur doesn’t reply, pushing past him, locking himself in his room to change out of the casual clothes.

The first thing he does is pull the die out of his pocket and set it on the table. He already misses its weight, and the way the plastic feels against his fingers. He’s held it in his pocket so tightly that the edges have made small grooves in his palm, and he traces them with his fingers in the shower, remembering a world—a _multitude_ of worlds—that aren’t real, but feel much more welcoming than this. He thinks of the weight that has settled on his shoulders from the moment he’s left Eames’ apartment, making him feel more like a prisoner now than he did before.

It distracts him at the office, once he’s dealt with all the necessary pieces of work waiting for him and has nothing else to distract himself with. He turns the die around in his fingers and sets it down on the table before him.

It’s red and white—like Eames’ poker chip, he thinks—and he rolls it on his desk, over and over again. Each and every time, it clatters on the polished wood and lands on a four.

 _Reality_ , Arthur thinks, and isn’t sure whether or not to be happy with this knowledge.

From dice and poker chips, his mind wanders to Eames. From the man’s casual and amiable personality to his unabashed fondness for crime, Arthur realises quite some time later that Eames is difficult to stop thinking about. Not simply because of the different world he’s shown Arthur or all the things he’d been able to teach in two hours of dreaming, but the way he listens, the way he understands.

The way they nearly kissed.

He knows enough about how it all works now to realise the interruption itself is a part of his own subconscious. Perhaps his guilt, or his desire to hide from the truth.

And he understands enough about Eames to know one very important thing: that it is entirely possible for him to have simply faked whatever attraction there had been in that dream on his part. He doesn’t know what he wants to be true. All he knows is that dreaming or not, the way he feels drawn to Eames is very real.

He sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. He doesn’t know how to deal with this. He isn’t even quite sure what he wants; an escape from his mundane life that dreaming can provide, or the way Eames can make the entire world feel different.

“Arthur.”

His father is in the doorway and Arthur sits up straight in his chair, swiping the die off the table and hiding it in his pocket. “Father.”

Wolff senior walks into the office, a man with a commanding presence, even in his fifties. He folds his arms across his chest and doesn’t sit, and Arthur doesn’t offer him a chair.

Not bothering with pleasantries, he gets straight to the point. “I’m unhappy with your performance this quarter.”

Arthur frowns. “We’re performing at two hundred percent of our current goals.” Even if he doesn’t enjoy it, Arthur is good at what he does.

“You could do _better_ , Arthur. If you stopped wasting your time with all the other frivolous things you do—”

“I know. I’m a disappointment. You’ll never be happy with me. I apologise, Father,” Arthur interrupts, sounding bored. His hand is still in his pocket, fist tight around his die.

 _This is real_ , he thinks to himself, and realises that he doesn’t want it to be. That he’s sick of it.

Wolff senior glares at him, the way he does every time Arthur fails to be crushed by his criticism. Turning on his heel, he slams the office door shut behind him and Arthur sighs, feeling drained and irritated.

He takes the die out again and rolls it from palm to palm, watching it settle on four again and again.

He can’t help himself. He has to go back.

 

•

 

“You did _what_? Are you mad?”

“Calm down, Yusuf. I have this completely under control.”

“I’ve heard that before, Eames, and I don’t care what you think. You don’t simply introduce a rich heir to the world of dream sharing and _let him go_. Especially not when you’ve just _kidnapped_ him.”

Eames shakes his head. “For one, he’s not the _heir_ , and secondly, he’ll be back. He needs to come back on his own accord. It needs to be his decision.”

Yusuf frowns, leaning back in Eames’ couch. He’s brought his cat with him this time and they both watch Eames pace back and forth in the small lounge room. For all his certainty in Arthur’s return, he cannot sit still.

“What makes you so sure he’ll come back? For all you know, he could turn up on your door with the police. Why did I even agree to come here? I’ll be imprisoned as a co-conspirator—”

“Yusuf. Calm down. He’ll be here. Alone. I know it.”

“How can you?”

“Before I woke up from that first dream,” Eames says, pausing mid-step and turning to his friend, “I had the dubious honour of meeting Wolff senior—or Arthur’s projection of him, at least. I found out some interesting things from the man. It turns out that their main point of disagreement is Arthur’s interest in things _other_ than the family business. For starters, he’s fond of research, and reads from a wide range of subject matter.”

“Useful for dream sharing…” Yusuf murmurs as he thinks. His eyes widen. “And if he likes research… oh. You sneaky bastard. You’re making a point man out of him, aren’t you?”

“He’s sick of the bland world he’s stuck in, here. I could be _blind_ and still be able to tell you that. The poor man is wasting away, Yusuf. I’ve done some research on Wolff Realty, which is Arthur’s branch of the company. Despite the fact that he has little to no interest in property development or running the business, they’re performing amazingly well. I saw the look in his eyes when we were dreaming, and he loves it. Imagine what he could achieve.”

Yusuf shakes his head. “I’ll admit that it sounds promising, but I think you’re being a little too optimistic—”

A knock on the door interrupts him and Eames grins brightly. “I told you.”

Before Yusuf can even reply, Eames answers the door and even sounds convincingly surprised—and pleased—to find Arthur on his doorstep.

“I didn’t think I’d see you again so soon,” Eames says as he leads Arthur back into the apartment, not commenting on the backpack slung over his shoulder. “Make yourself comfortable. This is Yusuf. This is Yusuf’s cat.”

“Rani,” Yusuf supplies with a friendly smile, offering a hand to Arthur. “Nice to meet you. I’m the one who made the drugs to knock you out.”

Arthur raises an eyebrow, but shakes Yusuf’s hand anyway. “A pleasure… I think.”

Yusuf catches the look Eames gives him and gets to his feet. “Unfortunately, we were just about to leave. Perhaps I’ll see you later.”

Arthur nods politely and Eames grins at Yusuf before he leaves,

Once they’re alone, Eames sits down on the couch, right beside Arthur. Neither of them speak for a moment and Arthur takes the time to relish the feeling of being back here, back in _this_ world, with Eames.

“Why did you come back?” Eames asks softly, as if he doesn’t already know. Arthur has been expecting him to be reluctant and unwelcoming, but he looks genuinely pleased to see him.

Even if Arthur knows Eames is a good actor, Arthur can’t deny how glad this makes him. He lets out a low sigh and sits back, his shoulder brushing against Eames’, reminding him of pianos and kisses that never happened. He does his best to push it from his mind.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about it,” he admits. “The dreaming. The way it feels so real. Everything.”

Eames nods, but it’s a little hesitant. He turns to Arthur and frowns slightly. “I need to be sure you know exactly what you’re getting yourself into, Arthur.”

“You showed me—”

“I showed you the good parts of dream sharing. You need to know that it can get ugly.”

Arthur pauses. “How ugly?”

With a grim smile, Eames gets up and walks over to the PASIV, resting against the wall. “I’m going to show you.”

 

•

 

“Eames, everyone is staring at us—”

“I know, Arthur. That’s the point. And don’t worry. They’re not staring at you, they’re staring at me.”

It doesn’t make Arthur feel any better. He hurries after Eames, who is walking down the street of a small town he’s dreamed up, changing things everywhere he goes. Eames imagines the streets lined with trees, then bushes, then nothing but pavement, and then back to trees. Arthur’s projections stand and stare, a cold intensity in their eyes.

They’re about to attack.

The first few people approach Eames, reaching out, grabbing him by the arms and shoulders. Others join in, and Arthur is left to watch as they push him to the ground and kick him, punch him, and tear him apart.

He goes to help, but his own projections hold him back, pushing him out of the way. He’s thrown back, sent sprawling on the floor, and hears Eames shouting something.

“Arthur—” he makes out, “—shoot me.”

They’ve been through this before. It’s the quickest way to wake up from a dream, and after he gets over the initial perturbation of putting a bullet through another man’s head, he sees it for the convenient escape that it is.

Still, there’s that moment of uneasiness as he flicks the gun’s safety off and takes aim at Eames’ forehead.

A mere twenty-four hours ago, he’d never handled a gun, real or dreamed. It’s amazing how quickly things can change. There’s a loud bang and he’s already had enough experience to absorb the recoil, and then suddenly, he feels like he’s falling.

He opens his eyes, gasping and groping for something to hold onto as his world tilts. The back of his head hits something warm and solid, and Arthur looks up to see Eames smirking down at him saying, “Kick.”

Pushing Arthur’s chair upright once again, Eames takes his own seat and simply waits.

“What the _hell_ was that?” Arthur yells, “You don’t think you could have warned me or something? Maybe tell me what to expect, instead of just waiting for everyone to start attacking like that?”

“Arthur,” he replies patiently, “Calm down. I was the one who got attacked, not you—”

“That doesn’t make it any better!” Arthur replies, thinking that in actual fact, that makes it worse. Standing by and watching anybody get torn apart like that is troubling. It doesn’t help that Eames isn’t simply _anybody_.

“I warned you it would get ugly,” Eames smooths his hair back and looks right at Arthur as he speaks. “You need to know these kinds of things can happen when something goes wrong. I need you to know that you’re willingly leaving a life of comfort, of not being chased by authorities, for all of this.”

Arthur doesn’t reply and Eames sighs, looking away.

“Of course, this would be the best time to turn back if that is what you wish.”

“I’m in,” Arthur replies which makes Eames look up. Holding the older man’s gaze, Arthur allows himself the smallest of smiles. “Besides, you need a point man, don’t you?”

Eames laughs and shakes his head. “You knew. How long?”

“Since you mentioned the research. The time you taught me about dream sharing and ran through the different roles.”

“You’re very clever, Arthur.”

Arthur folds his arms across his chest, feeling pleased with himself. “And that’s why you want me.”

There’s a brief hesitation as they both consider the double entendre in that last sentence. Finally, Eames smirks. “Yes. That is exactly why I want you. Tell me, have you ever been to France?”

“No. Wolff Corp could never get a good foothold there. Why?”

“Perfect. We’ll be leaving tomorrow afternoon. So, you want to escape your family and the life you’ve made here, but how far are you willing to run?”

 

•


	2. Part Two.

  
_  
**Part Two.**   
_   
  


  
_(take my hand now, we'll run forever.)_   


 

They’ve been in Paris for a week now, and Arthur’s broken French is steadily becoming fluent.

Eames is out somewhere but Arthur doesn’t know the specifics. He never does when it comes to Eames, he realises, and he probably never will. He gets nothing beyond what he can see of Eames’ personality, which right now is that of an irritating man who takes almost nothing seriously and flirts shamelessly with anybody who crosses his path. Arthur’s French isn’t yet good enough to understand exactly what it is Eames says to the waiters, waitresses, hotel staff, and just about everybody else, but Arthur thinks that his smile and the look in his eyes say enough.

Not that he cares.

Since he arrived in Paris, he’s been introduced to Dominick and Malorie Cobb, an extractor and architect couple that have made more breakthroughs about dream sharing between the two of them than the entire military put together. They’ve both taken it in turn to ensure that Arthur understood everything there was to know in order to become a good point man.

It’s been the longest week he’s ever experienced; a mere half-hour passing like an entire day in the dream state, where Arthur was taught the different methods of gathering information beyond simply reading about it in books. He’s taught to interrogate, to spy, to run and hide and not get caught. He spends a day in the dream world learning to identify weapons by sight and another few learning how to use them all.

By the third day he was already more exhausted than he’s ever felt before, but also much _happier_ than ever before.

Dom is a good teacher, much better than Eames, and Mal is encouraging, innovative, and has made it very clear to Arthur how impressed she is with his development over the past week. They have a beautiful, two-month old baby daughter and a strong sense of family that they happily extend to Arthur. They don’t mention his father or brother, for which he is thankful. As the training continues, he thinks of home less frequently and is amazed by how readily he’s been adopted into the Cobb family.

Mal spends a lot of time with him, taking him for long walks and showing him all of her favourite parts of Paris. She’s spent most of her life here and in between his lessons she takes him out and imparts her knowledge with wistful smiles and entertaining stories.

He’s finished his training now and is in the serviced apartment he shares with Eames, watching the local news when he hears the door opening. Eames enters their apartment, his usual smile in place.

“Did you miss me?” he asks, sliding onto the couch beside Arthur.

“Did you bring dinner with you?” Arthur replies.

“Even better, I’m taking you out to a restaurant, to celebrate. We’ve got a job.” Eames grins. “We’re finally going to have the chance to test out those wonderful point man skills of yours.”

Arthur can’t help but look pleased. The smile only grows when Eames leads the way to what is quickly becoming his favourite restaurant, just a few streets away from their apartment.

 

•

 

Eames dresses up for the occasion, which at least by his definition means wearing matching pants and jacket. They’re black, just like his shirt, and Arthur tries not to think about how good the colour looks on him.

Of course, Eames compliments him on his suit, a three-piece Armani ensemble he’d bought before leaving the States. Arthur nods in thanks, feeling hollow as he recognises the same appraising look in Eames’ eyes that he seems to give everybody else.

Arthur hates that he feels jealous. He frowns at his menu and doesn’t reply when Eames asks what is wrong. The frown deepens, just briefly, when the waiter comes to their table and Eames’ voice turns to molten liquid as he orders his food. Arthur gives his own order in the same detached tone that he’s developed from board meetings and conversations-turned-lectures with his father.

Eames looks at him with a frown as the waiter leaves and because there is no longer a menu to occupy himself with, Arthur reluctantly meets his gaze.

“You’re acting strangely. Are you nervous about the job?”

“Yes,” Arthur says, which is not a lie but definitely not the whole truth.

“You’ll be fine. From what I’ve seen and what the Cobbs have told me, you’ll be brilliant.” Eames smiles at him, and it makes Arthur feel much better, however briefly.

The restaurant is crowded and even if there is a very small chance that they will be overheard by anybody who will understand, they aren’t willing to risk discussing their job any further when they’re out in the open. They save it for tomorrow, when all four of them will be together, and spend dinner doing something they haven’t done much of despite living together for a week. They get to know each other.

By the time they leave the restaurant, Arthur feels like he knows Eames a little better. He knows that Eames is the younger of two children, born to a rich family in London, where he had stayed for the first eighteen years of his life before leaving it behind for more interesting endeavours. Arthur does not need to be told how dull high-class functions can be.

Eames is unsteady, to say the very least, as they walk back to their apartment. Honestly, Arthur is amazed that he can even stay upright after all the whiskey he’s knocked back. He has an arm around Eames who in return has an arm around Arthur’s shoulder, refusing to move it even when they needed to open their door.

“Eames, get off me. Your room’s _that_ way,” Arthur mutters, pushing at the other man ineffectually.

“I know,” Eames murmurs with a smile. He reeks of alcohol and Arthur turns his face away. “That suit looks lovely on you.”

“Thank you, Eames. You’ve already told me this. Four times.”

“Five times. _Really_ good, Arthur. Amazing. Perfect.”

“You’re drunk, Eames.”

Eames considers this for a moment and nods. “Yes.”

Arthur sighs. “Get into bed. I’m going to get you some water.”

Thankfully, Eames obeys. He lets go and shuffles into Arthur’s room, collapsing on the bed without bothering to get under the sheets.

Shaking his head in resignation, Arthur fills a glass for Eames, another for himself, and carries them into the room. Eames is smiling at him again as he rolls over and drains his glass. Arthur can’t help the small smile in return. “Good night.”

“Stay,” Eames mumbles into his pillow, reaching out blindly for Arthur.

“I have to put these away,” Arthur replies patiently, picking up their empty glasses. “Go to sleep.”

“Come back.”

Arthur sighs, hating his inability to refuse. “I will.”

Both beds in their apartment are doubles, which Arthur hadn’t really seen the point in. When he returns to his room he finds Eames has rolled over onto one side.

“Sleep,” he murmurs, looking up at Arthur through half-lidded eyes.

“I’ll sleep on the couch—” Arthur begins, but Eames simply frowns at him.

“ _Sleep_ ,” he repeats, more insistently this time, and mumbles something about a stick in the mud.

With a sigh, Arthur unbuttons his jacket and vest, and hangs them in the closet. Eames hums in approval and Arthur rolls his eyes, crossing the room to make him get out of bed so they can pull the covers over themselves.

“Happy now?” he asks the dark room, decidedly not facing Eames on his side of the bed.

“Mm. Good night, beautiful.”

In another five minutes, Eames begins to snore softly. Arthur, however tired, cannot go to sleep.

 _Beautiful_ , he thinks, over and over.

 

•

 

Arthur wakes up the next morning to realise he’s turned over in his sleep and rested his face against Eames’ chest. Eames is holding him close with an arm around his shoulder. Somehow, they seem to fit together perfectly.

He can’t get it out of his mind for the rest of the day. By the time Eames woke up, Arthur had already gotten out of bed and escaped to the kitchen where he was making breakfast for them. Neither of them mention it, and Arthur doubts that Eames even remembers.

The Cobbs own a small office they use as their base of operations and on the way there Arthur can think of nothing except the warmth of Eames’ body against his, the peaceful look on his face while he slept, and the strong urge he’d felt to stay right there in his arms.

He pushes it out of his mind once they reach the office to focus on work. They gather in front of the whiteboard while Eames briefs them on their new job. Their client is a steel trader from Scotland, with a business partner that has suddenly gone missing after snatching up all of their money.

“Are we expected to find the guy?” Dom asks with a raised eyebrow. “That’s not what we do.”

Eames holds up an unmarked manila folder and smiles. “Our man has been considerate enough to do his own homework. He’s had agents track the mark down and we’ve got a detailed outline of his movements. All we need to do is intercept him and then find the location of the money.”

“A mistress,” Mal says knowingly, flipping through the documents in the folder. She turns to Dom. “They’ll have a love nest.”

“We just need to find it and replicate it in a dream. How do you suggest we do that? Eames?”

The forger simply raises his eyebrows and says, “Arthur? Any ideas?”

Arthur frowns. “If the mark is moving around a lot, the love nest would need to be a place he regularly returns to. If we monitor these places we’ll be able to work out exactly what he’s doing in each location. One of them will lead us to his mistress.”

Dom nods, impressed. “Good. Eames, once we find the mistress you can start doing some research—”

“Hmm,” Eames shakes his head. “I don’t think she’d be our best bet. It’s always far too easy for a person to realise something’s off when you’re forging someone they know intimately. They’ve always got the upper hand.”

Arthur frowns in thought. “What if you forged our client himself? Make the mark think he’s been caught and see how he behaves. We make a safe for him to store the location of the money, and then distract him so Dom and Mal can get to the information while we hold the projections off.”

Eames raises his eyebrows. “I like that. Cobb, I’ll get started on this immediately. It shouldn’t take too long, thanks to this lovely information we’ve been given already.”

Just as Eames predicts, the job is simple enough. It takes them one week to collect all the information they need, and another to have the extraction job planned perfectly.

The job takes them to Berlin. Eames wears his disguise frighteningly well, considering what little time he’s had to learn it, and Arthur finds that they work well together. Eames has been teaching him how to handle firearms and they’ve grown so accustomed to each other’s strengths and weaknesses that they complement each other perfectly.

When the job is complete, they leave the mark asleep in his hotel room and split into pairs, arranging to meet back in France.

“You did very well, Arthur, I’m impressed,” Eames tells him when they’re in business class, on a plane back to where they’re beginning to call _home_.

Arthur nods his thanks and they both sit back in their seats, settling into a comfortable silence that didn’t exist before the job. Arthur wonders at that. Dom once told him that developing relationships with your colleagues can be a risky thing to do. Then Arthur met Mal, and he began to see the sure difference between what Dominick Cobb said, and what Dominick Cobb did.

Not that he was thinking about having a relationship with Eames, he tells himself, and a voice at the back of his mind, sounding distressingly like Eames himself, says that denial is not a very good look on him. He ignores that.

Eames is asleep by take-off, and Arthur finds himself glancing over, remembering that one morning in Eames’ arms.

This has got to stop.

 

•

 

Two days after their return to France, Eames enters their apartment to find Arthur sitting in an arm chair with a book. It reminds him of the very first time he’d seen Arthur and he takes a moment to appreciate the sight, to take in the peaceful look on the younger man’s face, to enjoy how comfortable it is to be able to come home to a sight like this, before inevitably destroying it.

He clears his throat. Arthur looks up with a hint of a smile showing through his blank mask.

“I think you might want to read this,” he says quietly, holding up a folded newspaper.

Arthur takes it with curiosity. It’s a copy of the New York Times, opened to a short article titled: _One Missing From The Wolff Pack_. His eyes go wide.

Eames watches him read, clinging very tightly onto his own poker face. He raises an eyebrow when Arthur looks up.

“Only took them, what, a month?” Arthur asks with a humourless laugh. “ _Missing_ , too. I like that. They can’t admit they know I just up and left them.”

He holds the paper out and Eames takes it, rolling it up and stuffing it into his pocket. He can’t think of what to say. He doesn’t want to start an argument over this, knowing the way it’s likely to end with Arthur as his opponent, so he says instead; “It’s nice outside. Fancy a walk?”

Arthur looks like he’s about to refuse but then he sighs and shuts his book. “Sure.”

They take a walk through the park and Eames ducks into a café to buy them pastries. They wind up in another café drinking coffee after half an hour, when Arthur finally says something.

“If they’ve taken a month to admit I’m not around, and they’ve gotten someone else doing my job, I can’t imagine they’re looking very hard for me.”

Eames nods. “If your father doesn’t have any contacts here, he wouldn’t know you’re in Paris. You’re still using your fake identity, of course?”

“Arthur Masters, yes.”

Eames’ mouth quirks into a little grin. “Always thought that name suited you. _Masters_.”

“What else would you have used?” Arthur asks, curious.

“Who knows?” Eames smiles slyly. “…Eames?”

Arthur rolls his eyes. Taking another sip of his coffee, he looks at Eames. “You’ve never told me your first name.”

Eames opens up his wallet and takes out several forms of identification. “Take your pick.”

Arthur looks through them, sighing in exasperation. In almost all of them his last name is Eames but there is a variety of first and middle names, none of which sound more or less likely than the others.

“A man must be allowed his secrets,” Eames says in reply to the glare Arthur gives him. “Why, is Eames not enough for you? Would you like things to be a little more personal?”

Arthur shakes his head. “Forget it. Look, anyway, I was thinking. If my family isn’t really looking for me…”

And here it comes, thinks Eames, he’s going to leave.

“Well,” Arthur says, “I was thinking of getting my own apartment here, instead of us having to share; now that I’ve got enough of my own money.”

Eames has absolutely no idea how to respond to this.

“Of course, I still need to look,” he continues. “I won’t move out until you have everything sorted out, too. Dom and Mal have asked me to stay on their team, so I’m going to settle here for a while.”

Eames nods. “Good. That’s good. I’m glad.”

Arthur looks pleased and Eames can’t begrudge him that. It hadn’t even occurred to him that Arthur would want to move out; moments ago, he’d been ready to argue to the death, if it meant convincing Arthur to stay in France. His own special form of denial, perhaps. Of course Arthur is an independent person. If he can get up and leave his family without any notice, Eames cannot reasonably expect much better.

He tries not to dwell on _why_ it bothers him so much. Not even when he invades Arthur’s personal space and leans into him on their walk back under the pretext of being tired.

 

•

 

The apartment Arthur finds for himself is small and cosy with a single bedroom, a small lounge area and enough space to work in. It’s conveniently close to the Cobbs’ house and about ten minutes by car from Eames’ new place.

Even though they set out on the same day, Eames still insists on helping Arthur move. In return, Arthur is prompted to help Eames.

At the end of the day they part ways a little awkwardly, realising that they can’t simply sit down on the couch together and unwind, the way they usually do after a long day.

It’s only been a month, Arthur tells himself, how did they become so accustomed to each other, and so easily?

But try as he might—and he truly _does_ try—he can’t deny the fact that somehow, he’s gotten a little _attached_ to Eames. It’s both a blessing and a curse that Eames decides he’s welcome at Arthur’s apartment whenever he pleases and tends to show up when he’s bored, usually at some absurd hour of the night when Arthur should be asleep but isn’t because he’s doing work.

“You’re a workaholic,” Eames declares, setting a bag of hot croissants down on Arthur’s table. “Were you like this at your father’s company too?”

“No, and that’s what he hated,” Arthur looks at the bag. “Where did you find a bakery still open at four in the morning?”

Eames grins. “I never said it was _open_ now, did I?”

“You stole these.”

“Have to keep my skills sharp. Don’t lecture—” Eames stops with a bemused look when Arthur reaches for a croissant and bites into it. “Ever the enigma, aren’t you?”

Arthur simply hides his smile against his croissant and Eames grins back, pretending he isn’t bothered by the fact that he doesn’t know Arthur as well as he thinks he does.

If Arthur objects to the amount of time Eames begins to spend with him when they aren’t working, he doesn’t mention it. For his part, Eames spends less time sitting on the couch or at the dining table and more time exploring the space Arthur has turned into a home.

“You don’t need to go in there,” Arthur says, not looking up from his work, barely an hour after Eames has begun exploring.

Stopping in front of the shut bedroom door, Eames looks over his shoulder with a smile. “Oh, but now I really do.”

He doesn’t expect Arthur’s room to be anything different to how it was when they lived together; a pristinely made bed, a closet full of suits and a hard shell suitcase with a PASIV inside. Of course, he finds all of these things.

But he also finds several different clocks in various states of completion lying around the room. Two on the wall with swinging pendulums, some on a table in pieces; click wheels, washers, and a host of other bits he cannot identify. Eames reaches out curiously for one of the small pieces when Arthur’s voice interrupts from the doorway.

“Please don’t touch that one. Not without the right equipment. It’ll fall apart.”

Eames pulls his hands back and turns to Arthur. “…Clocks?”

“They mean a lot to me,” Arthur replies, and Eames is taken aback by how candid the words are. “I really couldn’t care about Wolff Corp right now, but we started off as a small watchmaker’s shop. No one remembers that anymore. Not even the family.”

Eames considers the timepieces in front of him and smiles. “Well, it’s no small wonder you’re so damn good at keeping track of the time. Strange, though. I’d never seen you working on them when we shared that apartment.”

Arthur shrugged. “I left all my tools at home. I only just started again once I moved here. Look, anyway, just leave it alone. I’ll let you see once it’s done, if you really want.”

“I’m holding you to that.”

“Whatever, Eames.”

 

•

 

Eames, meaning well in his own strange way, begins to bring presents for Arthur every time he drops by the point man’s apartment. All of which are expensive, extravagant, and, invariably, _stolen_. Arthur refuses every single one of them; the silk ties, the cuff links, the wallets and the books, until Eames lets himself in sometime around half-past two one night, and places a small set of tools down beside Arthur’s papers and files.

Arthur stops typing and very, very reluctantly, reaches over to pick them up. “These are professional standard watchmaker tools.”

“I know that,” Eames replies casually, helping himself to Arthur’s store of tea. But what he doesn’t mention is how he’d slipped into several watchmakers’ shops over the past few days to compare their tools just so Arthur could have a set that suited _him_ best.

“You stole these,” Arthur says with a sigh, massaging his temples.

“If you disagree with my methods of… _acquiring_ your present, I could always take them back. Or sell them to my contacts—”

Arthur growls under his breath, examining the tools closely and individually. “If you sell these on the black market, you’re not going to find someone who appreciates them.”

“Like you do?” the question is accompanied by a frustratingly knowing smile.

“Damn it, Eames. Fine. Just this once, okay? Never again.”

“You’re welcome, Arthur.”

Arthur’s shoulders slump. “…Thank you.”

“So,” Eames says, placing a mug of coffee on the table made exactly the way Arthur likes, “I want to see you using those. I want to watch you tinker about with those clock pieces you have.”

“Now?”

“Whenever you’d like. But considering I’ll be off to Beijing for a week tomorrow afternoon, now sounds like a good idea.”

Without a word, Arthur gets up and leads the way to his room. Eames sits down on the bed and watches him while he talks.

“I’ve always liked pendulums,” Arthur says, nodding to the two wall clocks above his desk. “Did you know? If you put two pendulums on the same wall, they’ll synchronise their swings with each other. I think it’s neat.”

Eames grins. “Sure, trust _you_ to appreciate order—not that I mean it in a bad way, stop frowning at me like that.”

Arthur shakes his head and goes back to assembling his clock. Eames watches, unable to look away from his deft hands.

By four o’clock in the morning, Eames pulls Arthur away from the clocks and insists that he get some sleep. And he tries not to touch Arthur’s hands more than strictly necessary.

 

•

 

Arthur is extremely loyal to the Cobbs and never takes a job without them; an impressive fact, considering all the other jobs and money he is offered to join other teams. It’s only been three months and they’ve breezed through several jobs already, all planned to perfection and executed without a hitch. To extracting teams the world over, he is the enigmatic Arthur Masters; a man who can research, plan, and execute a job more precisely than an entire team of strategists. To Dom and Mal, he is simply Arthur, who comes around for dinner every Saturday night and baby-sits Phillipa when they want some time together. Somehow, he likes this better.

Eames, on the other hand, goes wherever his work will take him, which means that he never stays in one place for too long. However, he seems to have come to like Paris, which may or may not having anything to do with Arthur and the way they’d both stay up till dawn at either one of their apartments without having the obligation of forced conversation or even acknowledging each other, but to just watch T.V. and enjoy having someone else around. They talk when they have something to say, but the silence that fills the gaps is just as comfortable.

Despite the fact that Arthur still gets regular calls from Eames even when they’re both busy, he finds himself missing the late night interruptions, the stolen pastries he accepts more readily than the stolen presents, and Eames sprawled on his couch at dawn insisting sleepily that Arthur must be a robot. He even feels something akin to relief every time Eames returns to Paris after a job and makes it clear that he intends to stay for a while before departing for his next job.

Eames turns up at the Cobbs’ office one afternoon with a black eye and a crooked grin, saying he’s found them another job if they’re interested.

So far, only Dom and Mal have successfully managed to construct a dream within a dream stable enough without collapsing immediately. Eames thinks this time the second layer is what they need to extract the information their new mark has been trained to hide.

“This man, Richard Petersham, is the only person who knows the key move his company will make in the stock markets a week from now. But if we can go deeper into his subconscious we may find it a little easier to beat his defences.” Eames toys with his worn poker chip as he speaks, walking it back and forth across his bruised knuckles. He winks at Arthur in a way that sends a jolt down his spine. “And because we’ve got the best point man around, I’m sure we’ll be fine.”

Mal smiles warmly, Dom looks confident in this assessment, and Arthur feels sure of himself.

They fuck up terribly.

It isn’t Arthur’s fault. It isn’t anyone’s fault, it’s just the fact that two layers deep is not sufficient to lower the mark’s defences enough. The moment they reach the door of the subterranean vault Mal has created, the seemingly benign projections turn aggressive. They attack in droves and Eames’ best efforts to distract them are futile. They ignore everything around them, even when Cobb starts shooting in an attempt to keep them away, and they head straight for the dreamer.

Arthur.

The last thing Arthur sees before he’s torn to pieces is Eames’ face, wide-eyed and panicked in front of him. Then, black.

 

•

 

Dom doesn’t blame Arthur. Nobody blames Arthur, except himself. Dom has become so obsessed by the idea of stabilising a three-layered dream that he doesn’t even notice this. Mal, torn between concern and curiosity, reluctantly joins his research.

Eames takes Arthur to the hotel they’re staying in for the job, sits him down, and frets over the blank look on his face.

“Tea?” he asks at length, because he doesn’t really know what else to say and he knows that Arthur won’t react well if he starts with the _it isn’t your fault_ speech. Arthur nods, almost imperceptibly, and Eames busies himself in the kitchen for a while, hoping that when he turns around, things will be better.

They aren’t.

He returns with tea for them both. Arthur doesn’t protest when Eames leans against him a little on the couch; doesn’t even seem to be aware of the fact that Eames is staring at him. With a sigh, the forger looks away, at the carpeted floor, at his cup, at anything that isn’t Arthur.

“I should’ve known,” is all Arthur says.

“You couldn’t have,” Eames replies, his voice smooth to the point that he hopes it hides his uncertainty that anything he says will help. “Projections that attack a dreamer? It’s an entirely new concept. It wouldn’t have shown up in any of your research so I don’t see how you’re at fault.”

“I’m the _point man_ , damn it. I’m supposed to make sure we don’t screw up. We’re lucky we got out alive. What good am I if I can’t even keep the rest of the team safe for long enough to complete the job? I’m a failure.”

Eames reaches out cautiously and strokes the back of Arthur’s neck. “I hate hearing you sell yourself short, darling.”

Arthur stiffens and they’re both equally surprised at the term of endearment, and how naturally it slips out. Eames’ hand freezes just above Arthur’s shoulder blades and he shuts his mouth firmly.

“What did you say?”

“Ah… that I hate hearing you—”

“ _No_.” Arthur glares at him in a way that only _he_ can, managing to look both irritated and self-conscious at the same time. “The other part.”

It’s amazing how difficult it is to say when Eames is actually conscious of it.

“…Darling.”

“You…” Arthur stares at Eames, into his eyes, at his lips, everywhere, as if seeing him for the first time. He tries to find the right words, but can’t.

Finally, Eames lets out a small, self-deprecating chuckle. “Yes, Arthur. Yes I do.”

With his hand still on Arthur’s back, he pulls him close. Their lips meet tentatively, slightly parted, soft and warm against each other. Arthur exhales shakily and Eames brings his other hand to cup the younger man’s cheek, thumb stroking over the soft skin.

Arthur pulls away with a small frown. “Don’t—”

“I already have, Arthur.” The way Eames says his name makes him shiver and he shakes his head.

“No.” Arthur says more firmly. “I don’t want this. Not when—damn it, Eames, I’ve seen you flirt with _everyone_.”

“Everyone?” Eames repeats incredulously. He’s leaning into Arthur, not close enough to kiss again, but close enough to be distracting. “No. And never in your company—why would I even _want_ to?”

“I’ve seen the way you _look_ at people,” Arthur says in a measured tone. “The way you _smile_ and talk to them—”

“You’ve been watching,” Eames sounds smug. “That isn’t flirting, Arthur. When you’re pleasant to someone, they tend to be a lot more enthusiastic about doing things for you. Were you jealous?”

Arthur frowns, ignoring the way his cheeks burn at that last part. “But—”

“Arthur,” Eames murmurs, and the way the name rolls off his tongue makes it sound downright erotic. He holds Arthur’s chin between his fingers and the younger man freezes, his mouth slightly open. Eames runs his thumb over Arthur’s lower lip and gives him a serious look. “You’re observant most of the time and you are one of the most brilliant people I know. But I could be dancing naked with a sign that reads, _Arthur, I want you_ , and you wouldn’t bloody notice.”

“You’re insane,” Arthur breathes.

Eames leans a little closer. “I know what I want, at the very least.”

“Me,” Arthur says, having trouble believing it.

“Oh, yes. I didn’t say anything before because I wasn’t quite sure you’d appreciate it. You’re a frustratingly difficult man to read, Arthur. I hope you realise this.”

Arthur manages a small smirk. “It’s always good to keep things interesting, Mr. Eames.”

They reach for one another. Arthur hums in pleasure as Eames kisses down his neck, loosening the tie and unbuttoning the top of his shirt for better access.

“I’ll behave myself,” Eames promises, breath hot against Arthur’s bare skin, hands settling on his legs. “Let me take you out for dinner, first.”

“You’ve taken me out to dinner several times already,” Arthur points out.

“I’m trying my best to behave like a gentleman, here. We—we’ll board the next flight to Paris. We’ll get home, and I’ll take you to your favourite restaurant. After that…”

Arthur is already up, checking his laptop for the next available flight out. Despite the state of his hair and clothes, his expression suggests that he’s back into work mode. Still, he doesn’t protest when Eames leans over his shoulder or even when he presses kisses along Arthur’s jaw.

It’s a good start.

 

•

 

Arthur has never been in a relationship before. Definitely not when he was in the States, too afraid of what his family would say. Still, being in a relationship with Eames doesn’t seem like a big deal. It’s barely any different to before, for which he is thankful, except for the fact that now, when he wants to reach over during one of their arguments, hit Eames and then pull him into a kiss, he can do just that.

Eames continues his tradition of giving Arthur presents whenever he comes around and, somewhat reluctantly, Arthur begins to accept more of them. Eames has surprisingly good taste and becomes more wary of what Arthur is likely to accept. Arthur quickly amasses a small library in the corner of his lounge room, filled with books about whatever Eames can find; everything from mathematics to warfare.

And in his room, his collection of timepieces has grown to surpass the one he’d left behind in the Wolff manor.

“You’re going to need a bigger place, just to fit everything,” Eames murmurs, kissing Arthur’s bare shoulder on one of the rare nights they’re in bed before three.

“Or you could stop giving me things you’ve stolen,” he replies, a small smile tugging at his lips as he traces the tattoo on Eames’ bicep with his fingers. “I still can’t believe you stole something from the _Musée International D’Horlogerie_. And that you didn’t get _caught_.”

“And I was so relieved that you didn’t refuse it on principle and make me return it. I’m terrible at putting things back where I found them.”

“I know,” Arthur says, nodding in the general direction of his kitchen. “Seriously, the clock was all over the news the next day. They found _no_ traces of the thief at all. You’re scarily good at what you do.”

“Good to know I had to break into a museum for you to realise that, Arthur. Shall I do the Louvre next?”

Arthur shakes his head, laughing. Eames’ eyes brighten with delight at this and he rolls on top of Arthur, kissing him hard.

“You’re fun to steal things for,” he says once he finally pulls away, which is the closest he’ll get to acknowledging this commitment.

“I’m glad.”

With a smirk, Eames lets his hands roam further down Arthur’s body and they’re both promptly distracted from further conversation. Arthur arches into the warm touch, letting his head fall back as Eames’ hand works its way into his boxer briefs.

“Beautiful, Arthur,” Eames breathes against his collarbone as they undress each other, and the look of open adoration in his eyes is all Arthur can think of as he is slowly unravelled by gentle hands and a skilled mouth.

“…Eames?” Arthur murmurs once they’re lying on his bed, panting softly and thoroughly satisfied. “I have a question.”

Eames turns his head, “Mm?”

Rolling onto his side, Arthur frowns lightly. “What’s your first name?”

Sitting up slowly, Eames runs a hand through his hair. “You’ve asked me that before.”

“And you didn’t give me a proper answer back then.” Eames doesn’t reply and Arthur growls under his breath. “You know everything about me, damn it. You know my full name, where I used to live and any other information you would have gathered when you were planning to steal that art. I don’t even know your _first name_.”

“I don’t like my first name, okay? Named after my grandfather. Terrible arsehole. Don’t want the connection.”

Arthur sighs. “I’m not going to _use_ your name if you don’t want me to, I just want to know it."

“Alright,” Eames nods hesitantly. “Alright, I’ll give you a hint.”

“A hint. What are we, children?”

“Do you want it or not?”

“Fine,” Arthur sighs, “give me your _hint_.”

“It begins with a D.”

Arthur frowns, and Eames grins. “I’ve used names beginning with pretty much every letter, so good luck—”

“David.”

“What?” Eames gives Arthur a disbelieving stare. “That took you, what, two seconds? Did you cheat?”

Arthur sits up in the bed and doesn’t try very hard to conceal his smug grin. “No, but I _have_ noticed that of all your fake ID’s, you use the name David the most, either as your first, middle or last name. Closely followed by Randall, so your hint helped a lot. Thanks.”

Eames laughs and shakes his head. “And you said that _I’m_ scarily good at what I do. You’re downright terrifying. Fine, you’re right. David Randall Eames. Are you happy?”

“Yes,” Arthur leans in and kisses him, which takes any actual heat out of Eames’ irritation.

“Arthur Michael Wolff,” Eames murmurs against Arthur’s lips before kissing his neck, “if you call me Dave, I will be terribly upset.”

Arthur laughs, a little breathless as Eames bites down on his tender skin. “I would never. It’s not like you call me by any stupid nicknames.”

Pushing Arthur back down to lie on the bed, Eames grins. “Oh, but that could be fixed quite easily, Artie.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Sure thing. Artie.”

Arthur hits Eames’ shoulder. Then he pulls Eames down into a kiss.

 

•

 

Eames swaps _Artie_ for _darling_ , in the interest of not having Arthur hit him and then hiss, “ _Dave_ ,” like it’s the most venomous word in existence.

Somewhere along the way, they’ve decided to stop being so secretive about their relationship in front of the Cobbs. Arthur catches Mal’s small smile when Eames enters the office one morning after his coffee run, murmuring, “One sugar and no cream for you, darling,” placing the takeaway cup on the point man’s desk.

“Arthur,” Dom says one afternoon, when Arthur and Eames are reviewing their research on a mark. Arthur makes no comment on their proximity, or the way Eames’ fingers are playing across the nape of his neck. They look up in unison.

“Yeah?”

Dom frowns, trying to think of the best way to word what he’s about to say. “…Didn’t I talk to you about relationships in our field of work?”

“Oh.” Arthur looks at Mal pointedly. “Did you?”

Mal laughs, clasping her hands together. “You’ve taught him too well, Dom.”

“Oh, I’ll take good care of him, Mr. Cobb,” Eames says earnestly, with a broad grin, “I’ll even bring him home before midnight.”

“Very funny, Eames. You two just be careful, alright? It’s good to have someone you can trust, but if other people know about it they can take advantage of it.”

“We know, we know,” Eames nods. “If you don’t think Arthur sat me down with his list of Why This Might Not Be A Good Idea, you clearly don’t know him very well.”

Arthur elbows him. “It was just one point we needed to consider.”

“Yes, darling. Just one point, which we discussed for hours.”

“One hour. Not even that.”

Mal chuckles and Dom shakes his head, walking back to his desk and muttering something under his breath about _behaving like a married couple_.

Arthur tenses up. There is something in Cobb’s murmured remark that makes him feel uncomfortable. It bothers him so much that he doesn’t even notice when Eames slowly removes his arms from around his shoulders and sits up a little straighter.

 

•

 

They shouldn’t have bothered moving out of their old shared apartment.

Arthur thinks this a lot, but he never says it.

They wake up beside each other, and they fall asleep curled against each other. They even have something resembling a daily routine; Arthur wakes first, which wakes Eames. They brush their teeth and eat breakfast. They shower together, upon Eames’ insistence, which sometimes takes them longer than it should. Dom has quickly learned not to question the occasional spring in Arthur's step.

But there’s something under the surface that doesn’t feel quite right. It’s not just that afternoon in the office, with Dom likening them to a married couple, but Arthur wonders if perhaps that was the beginning of it. He thinks about Eames, about their relationship and the way he’d never expected it to grow into something like _this_ —whatever that is. For once, he hadn’t sat down and planned everything out. Even Arthur knows relationships don’t work that way. It doesn’t bother him any less and he deals with it the only way he knows how to: he ignores it.

Work consumes him, and he lets it. Dom is serious about stabilising three-level dreams, and even if Arthur shares Mal’s reservations, he dutifully helps out with the experiments and research in between preparing for extraction jobs. He shrugs Eames off whenever he comments on how Arthur is working too much and eventually, the forger stops bothering to point it out at all.

When he’s alone and there’s no work to be done, he finds other ways of distracting himself. He works on another clock—a new pendulum clock to go on his wall—just so that he has something to occupy himself with while he thinks. He doesn’t even know what there is to think about, which bothers him. He likes having everything sorted out in front of him and he enjoys making sense out of confusion, but his thoughts are so jumbled that he doesn’t even know where to begin.

The phone rings, and Arthur ignores it. Eames is in Belfast and Arthur has turned his answering machine on to the message that usually plays when he’s babysitting Phillipa.

 _I’m elsewhere at the moment_ , his voice says in a detached tone, _If it’s important, leave a message._

“Arthur,” Eames’ voice comes right after the beep, “I just spoke to Cobb, so I know you’re not over there. Are you avoiding me? Because you could have just left your answering machine off if you wanted that.”

There is a silence that follows, interrupted now and then by static. Eames is still on the line and Arthur puts his loupe down, and grabs the phone out of its cradle.

“Isn’t it late for you?”

“Hello to you too. I know this wonderful story you may have heard before. About a pot and a kettle.”

Arthur doesn’t reply and he can hear the false cheer in Eames’ voice as he fills the silence. “So what’s keeping you up so late?”

“I’m working on a clock. You?”

“I can’t sleep very well when I’m not in the bed I’m used to,” Eames murmurs.

Arthur’s chest tightens with empathy. His bed feels uncomfortably empty without Eames in it. It’s another thing he’s doing his best to ignore.

“I’m making a new pendulum clock,” Arthur says, not knowing what else to say, not wanting to say anything, but desperately wanting to say _something_ so he’ll get a reply and he can hear Eames’ voice. He hates this.

“Coupled oscillations” Eames says, remembering, “you’ll make it swing at the same pace as the others so they’ll all synchronise?”

“Of course.”

“Why don’t you make it slightly different? So they’ll always be just a little out of sync?”

Arthur laughs into the phone as if this is the most absurd idea he’s ever heard. “Why would I want that?”

“Where’s the fun when everything just falls into place so easily?”

Arthur bristles. Sure, it’s a stupid thing to take offence at, but he thinks he may be in love with Eames and he decides that this grants him permission to be a little unreasonable. “Another dig at my imagination. Thanks, Eames. Never mind all those sculptures for that gallery in our last job.”

“Straight from an art book on your shelf, I wager,” Eames replies dismissively. “That doesn’t count, Arthur, I’m sorry.”

“I don’t need your approval, Eames,” Arthur says bitterly, knowing it’s a lie.

“Of course not. You need Cobb’s.”

This isn’t a new argument to them. Both of them know that Arthur would drop everything— _has_ dropped everything—to help Dom with the smallest thing. It’s only worsened with Arthur’s increased dedication to his work. Arthur knows that Eames hates it. Eames knows that Arthur can’t help it.

It doesn’t stop them from arguing and their arguments always escalate so quickly; small, bitter remarks turning into shouting matches, regardless of the time or location.

This is a mess. Arthur can see that.

“Eames,” he says, and then shuts his mouth firmly because his next words will either be _I love you_ or _I’m scared_. He hangs up.

 

•

 

Eames comes home two days later and Arthur lets himself into the older man’s apartment to wait for him. They greet each other with enthusiasm; they kiss, they talk enough to make up for the days they haven’t seen each other, they have sex, and Arthur falls asleep curled against Eames, wrapped in one of his warm arms.

It feels like they’d never fought.

But the next day, while Arthur is explaining the quickly emerging concept of extractors training people to guard their minds, to have a militarised subconsciousness like the one that tore them apart so long ago, Eames accuses him of being condescending. This turns into an outright argument and they don’t speak for the rest of the day. Mal is concerned and lets Arthur know.

They do their best to reconcile later that night when they’re in Arthur’s apartment, but even in each other’s arms, they can’t ignore the discontentment. They sleep facing each other, with Eames’ arm around Arthur and while it looks right, it feels wrong. They avoid each other’s eyes, barely speak to each other, and sleep seems like a wonderful escape from a reality they don’t want to face.

They’re in bed by midnight but two hours later, Eames still isn’t asleep. He stares at the ceiling and listens to Arthur’s deep breathing, unable to shut his mind down.

Finally, at three, he turns and kisses his sleeping lover goodnight.

“I know what our problem is,” he murmurs against Arthur’s forehead, which is relaxed and free of the frown lines Eames has become so used to seeing. “I care about you too much.”

He rolls over onto his other side, away from Arthur, and finally sinks into deep sleep.

Beside him, Arthur’s eyes slowly flutter open and he looks around in the dark, wondering if he’d just imagined what he’d heard.

 

•

 

They silently allow the schism to grow. Eames doesn’t visit Arthur as often, and they both sound disinterested on the phone until the phone calls stop. Arthur spends a lot of his free time with the Cobbs. Phillipa is babbling happily now, almost ready to start speaking, and her eyes always brighten up when she sees Arthur.

One night, when Dom and Mal have come back from a dinner and Arthur is about to leave, Dom stops him. “Do you have a moment before you leave?”

The three of them sit down with a bottle of good wine and it’s Mal who speaks first.

“We were thinking of moving to America,” she says with a small smile. “To settle down there. Maybe have a little brother or sister for Phillipa to play with.”

“Yeah?” Arthur immediately starts thinking of the places Wolff Corp doesn’t have much trade. “Anywhere in particular?”

“Los Angeles. It’s where I grew up,” Dom says, looking directly at Arthur. “And we were hoping you’d join us.”

Arthur sighs slowly and takes a long sip of his wine before replying. “You know I can’t. L.A., of all places…”

“We know your family lives there, but we were looking at houses further away from the main city,” Mal says. “If you tell us where to avoid, we’ll do it. We both want you to come with us, Arthur. We really do.”

Arthur sits back and actually considers it. He’s been gone long enough, perhaps he would go unnoticed. No, he frowns to himself, that’s wishful thinking. He’s gotten too used to living in Paris, where he could do as he pleased because the name Arthur Wolff doesn’t mean a thing to anybody. He can’t imagine himself back in America, unsettlingly close to the very life he’d happily left behind. He doesn’t even know where Eames would fit into this picture.

Almost as if on cue, Dom says, “I was thinking you could tell Eames about it, too.”

Arthur nods once, barely a movement at all, and says nothing. He ignores the worried look on Mal’s face.

When he finally does leave the Cobbs’ house, he goes directly to Eames’ apartment. It’s usually Eames who shows up unannounced at his place and Arthur hasn’t been here for quite a while. Eames looks suprised, but faintly pleased to find Arthur at his door.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, his voice a low rumble that makes Arthur’s knees feel embarrassingly weak every single time.

He doesn’t reply. Instead, takes a step forward, into the apartment, and kisses Eames, hard on the mouth, losing himself to the feel of Eames’ hands settling on his hips, kissing him back and steering him to the bed.

It’s a pleasant distraction, while it lasts, but after the sex, all his worries start back up again.

“…Eames,” Arthur says, from under the tangle of naked limbs. The forger’s arms are around him and Arthur feels a kiss pressed to the back of his neck.

“Mm?”

 _Move to America with me_ , he thinks. He tries imagining a house, a life, with Eames in America, where his family is.

He can’t. He isn’t even sure he wants to.

Sighing, he covers Eames’ hand with his and murmurs, “good night.”

 

•

 

“Arthur. I’d like to speak with you.”

Eames sounds angry. Eames doesn’t often sound angry. Arthur knows exactly _why_ Eames is angry; Dom is sitting at his desk, looking extremely guilty.

Dom had casually asked Eames if he’d made his mind up yet about America.

Of course, Eames hadn’t known about America. At all.

“Didn’t Arthur tell you?”

This is how they are now in Arthur’s car, a stony silence around them as Eames fumes and Arthur waits for him to speak. They take the long way to Arthur’s apartment and it’s only when they’ve parked that Eames begins to speak.

“Were you planning on telling me at all?”

Arthur doesn’t reply, because he honestly does not know. Eames grunts in irritation.

“Dom and Mal are moving to the States,” Arthur says at length. “They asked me to go with them. And asked me to ask you to come with me—with us. To L.A.”

“Are you going?” Eames asks, looking straight ahead of him instead of at Arthur. “Following them like the loyal puppy you are? Right back into that wolf den you ran away from?”

“I don’t know,” Arthur admits. He tightens his grip on the steering wheel. Eames isn’t looking at him and he isn’t looking at Eames. In a quieter voice, he admits, “I don’t want to.”

“But you don’t want to leave the Cobbs.”

“I can’t. I care about them more than I’ve ever cared about my own family. I can’t just let that go.”

“And me?” Eames asks quietly, balling his hand into a fist and resting it against his mouth. “Where do I fit, in the grand scheme of Arthur Wolff or Arthur Masters or Arthur whatever-the-bloody-hell-you’re-calling-yourself’s life? Even if you aren’t sure whether you’re going, I had the damn right to at least _know_. Instead of being told by Cobb that _oh, he thought you’d already told me_.”

“I’m sorry.” Arthur means it. It doesn’t fix anything, even if they both wish it would.

 

•

 

Arthur doesn’t move from Paris. It pains him to leave the Cobbs, but they make arrangements for Arthur to fly over and join them for any jobs they take. His stays in Los Angeles are brief; a perfect balance between spending time with Dom, Mal and Phillipa, and not lingering too long so he doesn’t have to feel like he’s constantly hiding from his own family, which he is.

They take jobs close to their home for now and Arthur returns home to Paris one night, feeling jet-lagged and very glad to be back. Entering the apartment, he finds that Eames is already there.

Before he even gets to greet him, he realises that Eames is packing his belongings away. All the clothes that have lived in Arthur’s closet alongside his own for months are now being thrown into suitcases and Eames turns, not looking at all enthused to see him.

They both knew this day would come.

“What are you doing?” Arthur asks anyway.

Eames gives him a mirthless smile. “You know I hate staying in one place for too long.”

“Staying in one place for too long?” Arthur repeats, letting his own bags drop to the floor beside him. “You’ve been here for more than a _year_.”

“Exactly.” Eames doesn’t miss a beat, just looks around the bedroom-turned-packing area and says, “Have you seen my grey jacket?”

Arthur shakes his head, not wanting to believe this. His hand is already in his pocket, the edges of his totem digging into his palm. He turns back around and the last thing he says to Eames is, “In the closet. Next to mine.”

 _He_ walks out on Eames. For months after it happens, he tries to remind himself that _he_ left first.

Despite the late hour, Arthur finds a café and orders himself some strong coffee. He’s there for hours, ordering a new mug of coffee every time his old one goes cold, but eventually he is asked to leave. His hands shake the entire time and it has nothing to do with the caffeine.

He returns home to an apartment that feels half-empty. Everything is back to its neat and tidy Arthur-state, it almost looks like Eames had never been there at all. Arthur wonders what would have happened if he’d come home just a few hours later, to an empty house. If Eames would have said anything at all.

There’s an email waiting for him when he opens up his laptop, from a different team that he’s worked with in conjunction with the Cobbs’ team before. They need a point man.

He accepts.

 

•

 

There is no word from Eames the next day. Arthur does his own research, in his own subtle way. There are records of a ticket being purchased by one Randall Davidson, and a hotel room booked under the name Randall Jonathan Eames. This is all the information Arthur needs. He stops searching and closes the window.

Eames is leaving, and is not taking any pains to hide this fact.

He receives an email from the new team leader, briefing him on the job in preparation for their meeting tomorrow. Arthur tries to distract himself by doing a background check on their new mark.

Meanwhile, Eames is waiting to board his plane. Arthur knows this. He knows that if he is ever going to see Eames again, he needs to get himself to the airport, to the boarding lounge, and convince Eames not to leave, convince him that they both need to stop being so stupid.

But he doesn’t. He stays right where he is.

It’s nine-thirty seven at night, and a plane to Cairo has just taken off. Eames hasn’t told Arthur that he’ll be on it, but the flight details are burned into his mind. He imagines Eames sitting there in Economy class, hands missing the poker chip he’s left behind, on Arthur’s bedside table, without a note to say goodbye.

Nine-thirty eight. Arthur breathes. His shoulders slump and he buries his face in his hands. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his die.

It rolls a four. Of course.

Arthur hates the number four.

 

•


	3. Part Three.

_**Part Three.** _   


_(the demons from your past.)_

 

Mal is dead. The edges of Arthur’s die cut into his palm so deeply that he doesn’t think they’ll ever fade.

This is wrong. This is all so very wrong. Mal should be alive and well. Dom shouldn’t be on the run for something he didn’t do— _couldn’t_ have done.

Arthur reflects on the past few months; thinks of how their jobs had become less frequent. Of how, when he visited them anyway, there had been a strong sense of discomfort that would settle around them at the very mention of dreaming.

He wonders if he should have known. He wonders, a little selfishly, that if he’d given different answers—perhaps the _right_ answers—to the strange, abstract, questions Mal would sometimes ask him about the difference between dreams and reality, things would be different now.

Probably not.

He’s waiting to board a plane. He sits in the first-class waiting room at Heathrow airport, lost and without an anchor, as the world continues to spin around him. He’s going to Los Angeles, to attend a funeral that his mind is still desperately trying to reject as a part of reality.

His heart is broken and he can’t make sense of anything. He isn’t even sure he wants to. What good is there in the world, he questions bitterly, if things like this happen? He can’t even begin to imagine how terrible Dom must feel.

His flight begins boarding. He carries his bags on, nodding to the flight attendant and scanning the seat numbers until he gets to his seat. What he finds makes him stop in his tracks. He checks his boarding pass. He checks it twice more for good measure, and then checks his pocket for his totem.

This is reality. He sits down beside Eames, who he hasn’t seen for two years. Who looks up immediately, recognition in his eyes.

“Hello, Arthur.”

Arthur wonders if this is a coincidence, or if Eames has done this on purpose. He doesn’t even have the energy to care. It doesn’t make a difference. Leaning back into his seat, he sighs. “Hey.”

They don’t speak until after take off. Eames touches Arthur’s shoulder, giving it a brief squeeze. “How are you?”

He knows immediately that Eames isn’t asking him the general, meaningless question of, _so how’s life been?_

He hasn’t been all that great, and he’s sure it shows through the meticulously combed hair and pressed three-piece suit.

“Better than Dom,” he says, finally, sounding ragged.

Eames nods slowly, and there is sympathy in his eyes. Arthur would think it’s for him, if it didn’t make him feel so utterly selfish. “I spoke to him on the phone last night.”

“Me too.” The memory itself is painful and Arthur drags a hand across his face before looking at Eames again. “I’m guessing you’re not just headed to L.A. to steal something.”

“And neither are you.”

They lapse into silence again, and Arthur realises that he’s missed this. He’s missed the comfort of Eames’ presence; the way they don’t need to say anything to understand each other. It reminds him of peaceful days together in Paris, on the down days between jobs, and the emptiness hits him hard.

For several months after Eames had left, Arthur had lived in Paris by himself and then spent the next year or so travelling from place to place, going wherever jobs took him and not looking back. In that time, he’s whittled his belongings down to what he can fit into two bags; suits, files, his favourite timepieces, and as many of Eames’ stolen presents that he can manage to carry. The rest sits in boxes, in an apartment Arthur owns under a false name in Los Angeles. He’s tired of wandering from place to place and Eames is there, _right there_ beside Arthur, making him wonder how he could possibly let himself walk away from this before.

Eames looks up at him, noticing the small nuances of Arthur’s posture and knowing something is wrong. Arthur looks away with a frown and ignores him. He doesn’t even turn when he feels Eames’ hand on his shoulder again.

It’s too late to do anything now. He’s already walked away once; he’s not going to turn back. Not even if Mal is dead, Dom can’t tell him where he is, and Eames is the only remaining person who bears even a vague resemblance to something he can call a constant in his life.

Even if they haven’t seen each other in two years. There is a page at the very back of Arthur’s moleskine—regardless of which one he is using at any given time—with an untitled list of places around the world. It begins with Cairo and goes on to list places like Jakarta, Calcutta, Wellington, and several others. The last location on the list is London. He keeps it regularly updated. _Just in case_ , he’s always told himself. In case of _what_ , however, he’s never been able to tell.

It’s just part of his job as a point man, really, to know things. Never mind if these things include every place Eames has been in the past two years. There’s a fine line between obsessing and simply keeping an eye on past colleagues; between never letting go and simply curiosity.

Arthur isn’t a fool. He knows which side of the line he is on, and has always been on. He knows that he can just turn to his side and tell Eames, this very second.

But he also knows that he won’t.

 

•

 

When they land, Arthur heads straight out of the departure gates, waiting only to retrieve his checked-in suitcase with his PASIV. Eames looks at him like he is about to stop him, about to say something, but Arthur brushes past him, hating himself for it, with nothing more than a curt nod.

He goes to his apartment, removing the dust sheets from his furniture, opening the windows and letting the air in as he orders takeaway for dinner. He receives a text message sometime that night from an unknown number, but it isn’t Dom.

 _I won’t ask if you’re okay, because I know you’re not. If you need someone, I’m here. –E._

He doesn’t know how Eames has gotten his number, because Arthur hadn’t given it to him at any point during the flight. He stares at his phone, reading the message over and over, thinking of how he does need someone, of how he needs _Eames_ , specifically.

He drops his phone back onto the bedside table and doesn’t reply. Instead, he rolls over in his bed and tries to sleep. It takes a long time for him to even be able to shut his eyes, and even then, there are too many thoughts tumbling around in his head.

He’s still tired the next morning but he doesn’t allow that to get in his way. He gets in his car, stops at the nearest Starbucks for a venti latte, and drives to the Cobbs’ house. It’s a two-hour drive and by the time Arthur pulls up in front of the house he’s become so familiar with, he’s fully awake and no happier than yesterday.

It feels tremendously _wrong_ to be greeted at the door by Mal’s parents, even if they’ve been living in the house just next door since James was born. Arthur has met Annie and Stephen Miles several times in the past, and they both greet him warmly, like an old friend, if a little subdued. There are tear tracks down Annie’s cheeks and Arthur lets her hold onto him and tremble. It’s easier to ignore his own grief when he’s dealing with somebody else’s.

The children are confused. They both know something bad has happened, but all they know is that both their parents have disappeared, and they want them back.

Phillipa is inconsolable, and nobody knows how to calm her down. Her grandparents have already tried everything they know, to no avail, and even when Arthur sits down with her favourite book—the one she makes him read to her every time he visits—she throws a tantrum and demands that her mother return to read to her instead.

Annie finally manages to distract the children with cookies and toys, leaving them in their play room before returning to the table to sit with Miles and Arthur, muttering under her breath in French. Arthur realises, with an unpleasant jolt, that she blames Dom for all of this. He turns to Miles with a searching look, reassured by the sad, knowing look in the man’s eyes. _He_ doesn’t blame his son-in-law, at least, which comforts Arthur. Beyond Miles, he doesn’t really know who else to look to for help with Dom’s situation.

Annie wants nothing to do with it. She refuses to even talk about Dom with the men, shaking her head and walking off to spend time with the children instead. Miles explains quietly that she knows it isn’t Dom’s fault, just as well as they do.

“…But he’s the one who first wanted to explore the idea of more layers within dreams,” Arthur finishes, understanding in the way only he can, from knowing them for so long.

Miles sighs, and nods reluctantly. “Have you heard anything from him?”

“He called me when he left. To let me know.” Arthur rakes his fingers through his hair and shakes his head. “I don’t know anything else. Couldn’t trace the call. He said he’ll contact me when he can.”

“We’ll just have to trust he’ll be safe, then.”

Arthur hates sitting idle. He helps Annie cook, he discusses what he knows of architecture with Miles, and he plays with the children whenever their moods lift. It all makes him feel so, unbearably, empty, and this feeling only intensifies that night when he is about to fall asleep in the guest bedroom and his phone lights up with another message, still not from Dom.

 _Hope today was better than yesterday. Get some sleep, you have terrible bags under your eyes. See you tomorrow. –E._

He suddenly misses Eames with an intensity that scares him. He curls up on his side under the covers, pulling them over his head, reminding himself to stay calm, to relax, and to breathe.

He isn’t even sure if he’s looking forward to seeing Eames tomorrow or if he’s dreading it.

 

•

 

The funeral is short. It’s a bright day; just the kind of day Mal would have turned to Dom, to the children, to Arthur if he was there, and decided they were going for a walk.

She lies there in a closed coffin, being farewelled by everyone who loved her, except for the one man who loved her the most.

Arthur buys a large bouquet of lilies, because they were Mal’s favourite flower, and places them on the table beside her coffin. He sits in the row behind family, staring down at his own shoes and doesn’t even need to look up to know that the man who sits down beside him is Eames.

The service is subdued. Everyone in attendance knows Mal well enough to have been told of the true circumstances of her death, so Arthur is at least thankful that nobody here is blaming Dom for something he couldn’t have had any part in.

When it’s his turn to make his speech, he doesn’t cry. His voice wavers and threatens to crack with every sentence, but he doesn’t cry. When he sits back in his seat a little heavily, he doesn’t protest when Eames pulls him close with one arm. He simply surrenders, for precisely one quarter of a minute, breathing in the scent he recognises so well as _Eames_ ; spicy and sharp, with the faint hint of cigarette smoke. Then he clears his throat and pulls away, sitting straight once again and the lines around Eames’ eyes say he knows that whatever brief moment they had shared is now over.

Phillipa cries throughout the entire service. She doesn’t completely understand why she’s so upset, but the tears don’t subside. Not until the wake of the funeral, when Eames sits down beside her and starts showing her coin tricks. This distracts her, and then begins to actually cheer her up. She smiles at every new trick Eames shows her, and then asks him to teach her. She puffs her chest and gives him her best solemn look when he tells her to promise never to share the secrets to her magic, and smiles brilliantly when he winks at her.

Arthur watches them from the other side of the room, his hands in his pockets and his back against the wall. He watches Eames’ every movement, learning the tricks from observation the way he’d never bothered to, when they lived together in Paris. More important than the tricks, Phillipa’s smile of genuine happiness makes him thankful that Eames is here, that he knows exactly what to do, and when.

Eames has always had wonderful timing. Against his better judgment, Arthur can feel himself falling just a little more.

“Why don’t you stay with us?” he asks, also against his better judgment, when people are beginning to leave the funeral home and Eames is looking around, ready to leave as well. “You can drive home tomorrow, same time I head off. I think Phillipa would appreciate it if you stayed.”

“Didn’t drive here,” Eames replies, “couldn’t be bothered remembering how to drive on the wrong side of the road. Took a taxi.”

“Well, then this saves you the cab fare. Stay, and I’ll drop you back home when I leave.” Arthur is using his most persuasive tone and hates this fact, but Eames doesn’t comment, simply nodding in assent.

Arthur is correct; Phillipa is overjoyed to see that Eames is staying with them for longer and spends the rest of the afternoon sitting with him, practicing coin tricks and wanting to see even more magic. Arthur sits at the table with his laptop out, searching in vain for any hints of Dom’s whereabouts.

The children are asleep by eight, their grandparents both too physically and emotionally exhausted to stay up for much longer. Arthur rubs his face and reaches into one of his bags, pulling out a box with an incomplete clock and his tools.

Eames sits at the dining table with him, chin resting on his arms, watching Arthur distract himself with the precise, mechanical movements, denying himself sleep like it’s his own personal form of punishment.

They don’t talk, just like always. They don’t need to talk, they just need to be near each other; even if Arthur isn’t acknowledging how much he truly does _need_ this, and Eames has decided, for once, to sit back and not push the issue.

When it’s finally time for them to turn in for the night, Eames takes the couch. Arthur hesitates for a moment, an invitation to share the guest bed on the tip of his tongue, but finally turns away with a mumbled, _good night_ , and goes to bed, his mind spinning with what-ifs.

 

•

 

They leave the next morning. Arthur has to spend two hours in a car with Eames, trying and failing not to think of how right it feels to be with him like this.

Eames lounges in the passenger seat, one arm hanging out of the window. The only options are listening to a terrible country music channel that Eames has taken a fascination in, or actual conversation.

They talk about Dom. Or more accurately, Eames brings him up and Arthur lets go of all the worry he’s kept bottled inside, venting all the frustration at not being able to do anything, and just how helpless and angry he feels. Arthur is not the type of person to talk at length about his own feelings but Eames knows that he can, and will, with just the right push. He listens and nods sympathetically until Arthur breaks off with a glare, realising just how much he’s said.

“Not often you talk about your feelings,” Eames says with a small smile. “It would almost be refreshing, under better circumstances.”

“Shut up, Eames. I don’t need you mocking me.” Arthur is upset, and a little restless. Eames knows that it means he’s spoiling for a fight, but refuses to give in.

“I’m not _mocking_ you, Arthur,” he says, but Arthur is already resolutely watching the road in front of him, intent on pretending he’s the only person in the car.

The silence that settles around them this time isn’t the least bit comfortable. Worse is the fact that it’s up to _Arthur_ to break it. He doesn’t, for a very long time. Then he finally turns to Eames with a frustrated sigh.

“What are you going to do now? Off to another airport?”

“I’m staying here for a while. There are always things to steal.”

“Still thieving,” Arthur says, and then wonders if he sounds too affectionate. “Don’t the extraction jobs pay well enough for that?”

Eames laughs at this, low and rumbling, like he’s genuinely amused. “It isn’t about the money, Arthur, it’s the thrill. You, of all people, should understand that. Stealing information from the recesses of people’s mind, or stealing their belongings from highly guarded vaults, it’s all the same. You plan, you risk, you hope you don’t fail, and then you run like hell.”

“Right. The rush.” Arthur nods in understanding and then before he can stop himself, he asks, “do you still do extraction jobs? You left your totem behind.”

Eames raises an eyebrow. “Hm? That old thing. No, I can’t say I do shared dreaming as much any more. I’ve been having more fun stealing material goods these days.”

Arthur nods, because he doesn’t really know what else to do. “Shame. You’re—you _were_ a good forger.”

“Was that a compliment? From you?” Eames grins in delight.

“Shut up, Eames. It was just an opinion.”

“A _good_ opinion. Didn’t know you had any of those about me.”

“Give me a little credit, I _did_ tolerate you for more than a year in Paris.”

Eames lets out a deep chuckle, “I think what you did was a little more than simply _tolerating_ me, Arthur.”

Arthur’s expression immediately closes up, and Eames actually growls in frustration. He should know better by now.

“You’ll need to give me directions to your apartment,” Arthur says, his voice flat and his face blank. “We’re almost back in the city.”

Eames nods, leaning against his side of the car and watching Arthur’s expression. He considers telling Arthur exactly why he’d left his totem behind, and why he doesn’t forge as often; that the poker chip only made him think of loaded dice, and that every time he takes a job with a different team, he finds himself silently frustrated by the new point man’s lack of efficiency, or the way they pay less attention to detail. Instead, he remains silent, rubbing the stubble on his chin, and waits for Arthur to turn to him and prompt him again for directions.

When Arthur pulls up to the kerb in front of Eames’ apartment block, he glances out of the window and before he can quite stop himself, says, “different apartment to before.”

Eames turns, pauses a beat, and says, “A little change of scenery. Keeps things interesting.”

“You hate staying in one place for too long. I, of all people, should know that.” The words come out more bitter than Arthur intends, but he doesn’t feel particularly inclined to take them back.

Eames gives him a look; a little hurt, and a little apologetic. “Thanks for the lift.”

Arthur drives off the moment the car door falls shut. If he can’t stop thinking about that look on Eames’ face, he tells himself it’s just because it’s the last thing he’d seen.

 

•

 

Against his better judgment, and everything he’s ever thought about his self-restraint, Arthur is at Eames’ door at eight-thirty the next morning. He’s only here to apologise, he reminds himself. Never mind that this somehow turned into picking up breakfast for them on the way.

He presses the doorbell once, waits, and then holds it down.

“Alright, alright, Jesus Christ—” he hears Eames on the other side, his heavy footsteps approaching the door and pulling it open. “Now what the ever-living _fuck_ —Arthur.”

Arthur tries not to smile. The corners of his lips twitch upwards anyway. “Good morning. I brought breakfast.”

Eames stares uncomprehendingly at him before grunting and moving aside. “Come in. Did you have to come so bloody early?”

“It’s already eight-thirty.”

“Right. Bloody early. Sit down, I’ll make coffee.”

Arthur ignores him, searching the cupboards for plates. The croissants he’s bought are dripping with butter and pale in comparison to those from Paris, but standing in the café, Arthur could not bring himself to pick anything different.

Just as a little homage to the place he’d spent the best year of his life in, he tells himself. Nothing to do with the fact that Eames absolutely loves them.

They’re too oily and toasted a little too crisp, but Eames hums in pleasure when he bites down into his. Arthur suppresses his smile against the rim of his coffee mug.

“Do you have a meeting afterwards?” Eames asks, eyeing Arthur’s suit.

“No. Waiting on Dom before I take any new jobs. Money isn’t an issue, just yet.”

“I hope Cobb realises how lucky he is,” Eames takes another bite of his croissant, “to have someone as loyal as you.”

Arthur shakes his head. “Great lot of help I’m doing him, right now.”

“You’ll find a way. You’re _Arthur Masters_ , the best point man in the world and Cobb’s right hand man. You’ll work something out.”

“I hope so,” Arthur replies, his shoulders slumped. Changing the subject so he won’t need to dwell on it, he looks up. “So what are you planning on stealing next?”

Eames smiles. “I was planning on doing some field research for that today, actually. And even if your eyes didn’t just light up at that, I know how much you love your research. Would you care to join me?”

Arthur sits back in his chair and tries his best to refuse the offer, knowing that spending more time with Eames than strictly necessary is definitely a bad idea.

Instead, he says, “Sure. I’d love to.”

 

•

 

Eames takes them to a museum nearby and leads Arthur around with a smug grin, already familiar with the layout from a brief visit the day before.

“This is such a lovely painting,” Eames says, stopping in front of an oil on canvas, giving Arthur a sidelong glance.

“This one?” he asks, glancing around them before turning his gaze to the picture itself. “I have to agree. From post-war Britain. My favourite time period for paintings.”

“Is that so?” Eames asks and lowers his voice, “I didn’t know the Wolff family had any.”

“They don’t,” Arthur replies casually, taking his moleskine and pen out, “Wolff senior hates them.”

He scribbles into his notebook now and then as they walk around the rest of the museum, blending in to the small scattering of others doing the same at every display. He doesn’t allow Eames to see until they’re back at his apartment, eating a late lunch.

“Here is a rough map of the security guards. They’re all fairly widely-spaced, and there’ll be fewer after closing. I circled the most likely places to be guarded after hours.”

Eames grins. “You must really be missing work if you’re taking notes with this much detail.”

“Forgive me for not wanting to bail you out of prison.”

“I’m offended, Arthur. I _am_ a professional.”

“This is a museum,” Arthur replies. “Not something you can just walk in and out of. I hope you realise that.”

“Thank you for being so condescending, Arthur. What do you _think_ I’ve been breaking into for the past two years; paper bags guarded by the blind, deaf and mute?”

“Alright, fine, you have experience—”

“I don’t just bloody have _experience_ breaking into museums, Arthur, it’s all I’ve been doing.” Eames’s voice is rough and angry, which comes as a surprise to them both. Taking a breath, he forces some calm into his voice before continuing, “After stealing that—that clock for you all that time ago. I’ve just… developed some kind of appreciation for museums. The way the security is different for each one. No two are ever the same.”

“Oh.” Arthur doesn’t know what else to say. Part of his mind is imagining Eames breaking his way into highly guarded museums, risking life and limb for a thrill. Most of his mind is fixating on the fact that it’s _his_ clock that began this; the clock that sits on his table, wherever he stays. “I… I didn’t mean to be condescending.”

“Of course,” Eames smiles like he genuinely means it. “You never _mean_ it. But anyway, let’s have a look at your notes, shall we?”

Despite the infuriating comments Eames makes about Arthur’s unhealthy obsession for detail and lack of imagination, he ends up keeping the five pages of scribbled notes and tapes them to his wall. The observations are different to what he’d usually make; Eames’ plans are usually made to the assumption that he’ll be knocking any guards out with his supply of Yusuf’s drugs, but on one of the notebook pages, Arthur’s mapped out the locations of the guards, the security cameras, and outlined the best route to avoid both.

Arthur returns to his own flat in the afternoon, wanting to at least _try_ and track Dom down. Eames wishes him luck, though both of them know he’ll find nothing.

He’s a little surprised when Arthur shows up at his door again the next morning, once again bearing their breakfast in a paper bag. Arthur declares that he’s here to do work; because planning to break into a museum is the closest thing he can get to being a point man for now.

Eames already has an idea. They go to the museum again to test it out so that they can fix any problems they find with it. Arthur reluctantly admits that he is impressed by the quality of the plan. Eames doesn’t tell him how much of it has come from the five pages of notes on his wall.

Arthur knows exactly why he’s spending so much time with Eames, no matter how much the rational portion of his mind insists that this is a very bad idea. It’s far too easy to feel comfortable with Eames when he’s so familiar, so unchanged over the time that has passed. Eames still wears the most ridiculous colours together as if for the sole purpose of making Arthur roll his eyes, he still fiddles constantly without ever sitting still, and he’s still terrifyingly insightful.

“You’re lonely,” Eames says, after lunch, when Arthur is sitting on the forger’s couch, flipping through his moleskine.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Arthur replies in a clipped tone. “I’m perfectly capable of being on my own.”

Eames recognises the defensive look in Arthur’s eyes, the way his expression begins to close up, but pushes anyway. “Ah, but you’re _here_ , aren’t you? Not alone. Because you don’t want to be—”

“If that’s a polite way of asking me to leave, Eames, I’ll go.”

“No, it’s not. Listen, Arthur—” but he’s already gotten up and left.

Eames sighs, frustrated. Arthur is still the same; still the efficient, detail-oriented, and impossible-to-read Arthur that he’d loved in France, didn’t stop thinking of in Cairo, and has missed since then. Except this time, Arthur is even more difficult to understand, and the smallest thing makes him immediately shut down. All the museums in the world have nothing on Arthur.

Eames suspects it’s part of the reason he’s never truly stopped loving the man; to the point where he can admit it to himself without the immediate urge to run in the opposite direction.

 

•

 

Eames steals the painting that very night. He’s already up and ready at eight-thirty this time, waiting for Arthur, unsure if he’ll even show up and fiddling with the kettle to keep himself distracted. Arthur finally lets himself into the flat, at eight-forty, muttering under his breath about the traffic. He hands the paper bag of croissants over to Eames and then pauses, noticing the look in his eyes.

“You stole it.”

“Last night.” Eames grins broadly, giddy with the thrill of success, and the thrill of having Arthur here. “Without a hitch. Thank you, Arthur.”

“So you _did_ end up using those notes. Even though they were… what did you call them? Obsessive to the point of stalking?”

“You’re very good at what you do. And I apologise if I’ve hurt your feelings.”

“I know, and you didn’t,” Arthur replies, a small smile touching his lips as he takes charge of breakfast, getting plates out and pouring coffee for them both.

Eames takes the mug he is handed and sits down at his table. “I’m glad you came over again. I know I offended you yesterday.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Arthur looks away and thinks that it is his own—for not being able to let go of something that belongs in the past. “And if I didn’t come around here, you probably wouldn’t have anything to eat for breakfast.”

Eames smiles at that, remembering Paris and the way Arthur had always insisted on regular meals. Preferably together.

 _I miss you like mad_ , he thinks. What he says is, “I’ve got to drop this painting off at Yusuf’s place so he can get it to his contacts— you remember him, don’t you? Would you like to come?”

Yusuf lives in a small house and there are strange compounds in bottles and beakers, scattered across every available surface. He pushes some of them aside to unroll the painting, and he and Eames begin discussing their deal. Arthur sits on a sagging couch, half-listening to them as his gaze travels across the cluttered apartment.

Rani, deciding she likes Arthur, has settled on his lap and purrs in contentment as he strokes her back. Eames glances over at them, mid-conversation with Yusuf, and finds himself extraordinarily jealous of her. A _cat_. Especially when he remembers how good Arthur’s massages once felt.

Yusuf follows his gaze and lowers his voice to ask, “What happened? Last time we spoke, you were still pining—”

“Yes, thank you, Yusuf. That was not pining, I do not _pine_. We’re not discussing this where he could overhear. Now, back to the buyer—”

Yusuf nods solemnly and, in accordance with Eames’ request, doesn’t bring it up where Arthur can overhear.

He asks Arthur directly, instead.

“So Arthur,” he says cheerfully when the three of them are sitting down and drinking tea. “What brings you back together with Eames?”

 _Back together_. He chooses his words deliberately and covers it up with an innocent smile.

The question makes Arthur tense, and for a moment, look utterly lost. Eames would be enjoying the expression, if not for the fact that he’s currently pinching the bridge of his nose and doing all that he can to keep himself from hitting his old friend.

Arthur casts a helpless glance in Eames’ direction, taken aback by how resigned he looks, just waiting for a scathing answer.

“I… don’t know,” he admits, sounding awkward. Eames looks up and Arthur holds his gaze. “But I know that without him, I’d slowly be going insane on my own.”

Eames stares and Yusuf smiles, raising his teacup to the air. “To being sane! …Or relatively so.”

Arthur sips his own tea with a bemused look, and Eames is too busy looking down at his teacup to notice the way he’s being watched.

“I apologise for Yusuf,” Eames says, later. They’re eating dinner at his apartment and again, Eames is both pleased and amazed that Arthur is still willing to spend time with him. “He shouldn’t have asked you that.”

“It was a good question,” Arthur says slowly, sipping from his wine glass. “It made me realise that I’m—I’m using your presence to distract myself from everything about Mal and Dom.”

The lost look is back in his eyes. For someone so unsettlingly good at shutting off any sign of emotion in himself, Eames thinks, he’s seen Arthur look lost and helpless far too many times in the past few days. He doesn’t even know what to do with the knowledge that it’s because Arthur is _letting_ him see it.

Darling, he wants to say. _Darling_. “Arthur. You, of all the people in the world. _You_ have my full permission to use me however much you need. Whenever, and to whatever ends. If there was even a speck of truth in what you told Yusuf—if I’ve made you feel even the tiniest bit better in these past few days—then I’ll feel that my time was worthwhile.”

This is not something Eames would simply say, and even now, he’s holding back his primary instinct to just take it back. Arthur knows this, and clearly appreciates it.

“I meant it,” he says, quiet and honest. “Thank you.”

Eames smiles at him. “You know you don’t need to thank me.”

Arthur simply smiles back, over the rim of his wine glass. “Thanks anyway.”

 

•

 

“I was—well, I was wondering if you had any plans for tonight.”

Arthur doesn’t reply, and Eames curses the fact that he’s chosen to ask over the phone.

They’ve spent the day apart, after having breakfast together, and _god_ , Eames misses him already. It’s pathetic. Never mind the fact that Arthur had answered his phone on the first ring.

“You know I don’t,” Arthur finally replies, his tone cautious. “Why?”

“I was wondering if you’d like to go out with me to dinner,” Eames says, adding, “For research purposes, of course. It’s a very high-class place. Expensive decorations all of the place.”

“…And you want to steal something,” Arthur’s tone says that he’s intrigued.

“I know someone who may be interested in a particular vase they have. Very pretty thing, from what I’ve heard. I’d quite like to take a look at the area first and we may as well enjoy some fine dining while we’re at it. I just so happen to have come into quite a sum of money.”

“You want me to go with you,” Arthur says, more of a statement than a question.

“It would be preferable to dining alone,” Eames replies, thinking, _for god’s sake, just say yes_. “You drive, I’ll foot the bill, and we’ll have a good look around the restaurant so we can trade ideas over ice cream after. How does that sound?”

It sounds like a date. Eames knows that, and he’s sure that Arthur knows it too.

“It sounds better than staying at home,” Arthur answers, which is infuriatingly non-committal, but Eames is mollified when he adds, “Can you get us a reservation at such short notice?”

“Without a problem.” Eames decides it’s probably best not to mention that he’s already made their reservation. “How does seven sound?”

“I’ll pick you up at quarter to.”

“Brilliant. I’ll be waiting.”

“Oh, and Eames?”

“Yes Arthur?”

Eames is certain Arthur is smiling on the other end when he says, “Wear something nice. I don’t want to be turned around at the door because your shirt is too unsightly to warrant entry.”

“Please,” Eames laughs, “that’s never happened before.”

“It almost did. In Paris.”

“When?”

This time, Eames can actually visualise Arthur’s grin as he speaks. “Almost every time you showed up at my door.”

“Smart arse. I’ll see you at quarter to seven.”

“See you.”

Eames hangs up, and realises that _he’s_ grinning like an utter fool.

It most definitely sounds like a date.

 

•

 

When Eames answers the door that night, Arthur stares. Eames is extremely pleased, deciding that this makes up for the half-hour he’d spent trying to remember how to tie a Windsor knot, far too stubborn to simply look it up. He’s gone all out tonight; a sleek, black suit, his best shirt with his only pair of cufflinks, and his hair slicked back.

“You’re wearing a tie,” Arthur says intelligently, in a feeble attempt to cover up the fact that he is blatantly ogling.

“Didn’t want to get turned around at the door,” he replies with an easy smile. “Shall we?”

Arthur is glad to be back in the car, where he is actually _required_ to look at something other than Eames. Yet, at every red light, he comes up with an excuse to turn in Eames’ direction. He does this so casually that if he were with anybody else, they would be convinced he wasn’t just looking for a chance to stare. But this is Eames, and even if he’ll never figure Arthur out entirely—or even half as much as he _wants_ to—he knows all the little things. Like how Arthur wets his lips more often when he’s struggling for self control, his tongue lingering on his lower lip for half a second too long. The way his hands tighten their grip on the steering wheel as he battles his desires.

Eames hasn’t felt this wanted since that time he’d had to outrun those three agents in Shanghai.

The restaurant is beautiful, and so wonderfully suited to Arthur, Eames thinks, as he looks around and takes in the low lighting, the sleek and minimalist design of the place, made of polished wood and stainless steel, broken up by a painting here, a small sculpture there.

The table reserved for them is beside a large window, giving them the view of a valley dotted with city lights. Arthur doesn’t look, his gaze settled back onto Eames, who certainly doesn’t mind the attention and returns it all too eagerly.

They order drinks; a fine bottle of Shiraz, and Eames casually scans the restaurant, memorising the layout of the room and the position of the vase, before turning back to Arthur.

“Any news of Cobb?” he asks quietly, because it’s impossible not to look at Arthur, at the lines on his face and the shadows under his eyes, and not think of the man responsible.

“None. I’m beginning to wonder if there ever will be.” Arthur shrugs. “Maybe he’s just decided to move on.”

“Nobody in their right mind would ever leave you behind,” Eames says with a vehemence that almost makes it possible to forget the fact that _he_ had. “Not Cobb. He may not be in the best state right now, but he’s not stupid.”

“Not like you,” Arthur says before he can quite stop himself.

Eames gives him a tight smile, feeling more bitter than he has any right to. “Not like me.”

Their drinks arrive and Eames hums with appreciation at the first sip. “I haven’t tasted wine this good since Paris.”

“That restaurant at the corner of my street,” Arthur says, remembering, “had the best wine.”

“I loved that place.”

“You dragged me there at least once a week,” Arthur says with a small smile.

“ _Dragging_ is hardly the word for it. You were just as enthusiastic as I was.” Eames chuckles. “Are we reminiscing, Arthur? Is that what we’ve come to?”

Arthur’s smile falters, but he holds it in place. “I just miss the times when things were simpler.”

“You were never simple, darling.”

Arthur looks up, holding Eames’ gaze. “Say that again, Mr. Eames.”

“Are you gentlemen ready to order?” a waiter interrupts, and they both realise that they’ve been leaning into each other across the table.

Straightening up and clearing his throat, Arthur orders his food and Eames does the same, not looking away from him.

They’ve spent two years apart, Arthur thinks, and now, they’ve had not even four days together and it’s already come to this. It shouldn’t be this easy for him to just want to fall back into what he had with Eames.

 _I love you_ , he thinks, looking into the dark, blue-green eyes watching him, and the thought is intense, heavy in his chest. It doesn’t make him want to run this time, but it isn’t something he can simply say, either.

“Tell me about the vase,” he mutters, lifting his glass and fixing his gaze on the dark red wine.

Eames sighs quietly. They both know that he’d been hoping for something else, but he hides his disappointment well, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms. The owner of the restaurant is a collector of antiques, and the vase is one from her personal collection, he explains.

“There’s a very high asking price for pottery of this particular period,” Eames explains delightedly. “If this went successfully, I would never need another job again.”

“I was of the impression that was already the case,” Arthur says as their appetisers arrive.

“Well, yes.” Eames grins at him, “but it’s the _thought_ that counts.”

The corner of Arthur’s mouth tugs upward at this, and Eames’ grin widens. It’s been far too long since he’s seen Arthur smile with his teeth, he decides. He’ll fix this tonight.

Arthur is a difficult man to charm; Eames knows this from experience. But he also knows how it _is_ done. It helps considerably that Arthur doesn’t stop staring at him with that wonderful look of appraisal in his dark eyes.

They don’t even realise when they begin leaning across the table again as they speak. They don’t realise that this has stopped being about the vase entirely.

And they don’t realise that from across the room, Phillip Wolff, heir to the Wolff Corporation and older brother of Arthur, watches them both with a mix of surprise and disgust.

 

•

 

They walk down to the street to Eames’ apartment. Arthur has parked his car farther away this time, claiming he can’t find space closer and they both conveniently ignore the fact that there are hardly any cars parked along the curb at all.

Arthur is smiling in that open-mouthed, genuinely happy way that makes Eames feel like the entire night has been worth it. It may have something to do with the several glasses of wine Arthur’s had, but it’s more likely to do with the fact that Eames’ hand is resting against the small of his back. They huddle together, ostensibly for warmth, but there’s barely a breeze.

“We have to go back to that restaurant sometime,” Eames says at the entrance to his block. “To do more research for that vase.”

“You’re _already_ asking me out again,” Arthur says, still smiling. “For research.”

“For research,” Eames echoes. “You should let me kiss you.”

Arthur laughs this off, but quickly stops when he realises that Eames is being serious.

“No.”

Eames’ brow creases in a light frown. “But Arthur—”

Arthur shuts his eyes, eyebrows drawing together. He wants to give in; _god_ , he wants to give in and have Eames back again, but he can’t let himself do that. He can’t put his relationship with Eames at risk like that when Mal is gone and Dom is nowhere to be found.

“ _No_ , Eames,” he says firmly. “Good night.”

Ignoring the hurt and confused look on Eames’ face, Arthur turns on his heel and walks back to his car. He’s so distracted by the confused thoughts that are swirling in his head and the pounding in his chest that he doesn’t notice the car parked on the other side of the street, or the two men inside, watching him.

 

•

 

From the passenger seat of the black car, a man watches Arthur leave, takes in the dejected slump of Eames’ shoulders, and pulls his phone out of his pocket.

“Sir.”

“What have you found out about my brother?” Phillip asks from the other end.

“He’s dropped his acquaintance off at an apartment block and has returned to his car, license plate—”

“I don’t care about that. You know where this other man lives, then? Follow him. Find his apartment number. Arthur won’t be willing to talk to me without some leverage.”

“Yes sir.”

 

•

 

Arthur wishes he’d kissed Eames. It had bothered him the entire night and it bothers him now, as he gets out of the car and walks to Eames’ door, breakfast in hand.

He only really has two plans for today: work out how they’re going to steal the vase they’d both been too distracted to pay proper attention to, and kiss Eames. Not necessarily in that order.

He rings the doorbell, but receives no answer. He presses the button down again, and calls, “Eames?” but still, nothing.

He waits for half a minute before growling under his breath, cursing Eames for being a sulking bastard, and tries the door knob.

It opens easily. Arthur freezes as he takes in the state of the room. It’s entirely trashed; there is broken glass on the floor, furniture lying on its side, and blood on the carpet.

Arthur swears loudly. He shuts the door before any neighbours can see and sifts through the wreckage for clues. He runs through his mental list of organisations and other powerful people who have reason to wish harm on Eames, but it doesn’t even take him half of the A’s before he finds the note.

It’s a small, square slip of paper, sitting on the untouched dining table. The writing is vaguely familiar, which concerns Arthur deeply. It’s been left there knowing it will be read. That he will read it.

 _Arthur,_

If you want him, come and get him.

—Phillip.

Arthur swears louder this time. He reaches for his phone and thumbs through his contacts.

“Yusuf? I’m sorry if I woke you. Look, that knock-out gas you make for Eames? I’m going to need some. I’ll pay double what you charge if it’s ready in the next ten minutes. I’m coming over.”

 

•

 

Eames is woken up by a fist to his face. He turns his head to the side, spitting blood, and opens his eyes.

He’s tied to a wooden chair in a well-decorated room. He recognises the two bruisers that had attacked him. He also recognises the man standing between them, who looks everything and nothing like Arthur.

“You must be Phillip,” he says, grinning despite the fact that it hurts his mouth.

“What do you know about Arthur?” Phillip demands.

“That he’s the better interrogator,” Eames replies casually. “I don’t mean to offend you but really, if I wanted information, I’d send him over you.”

“Don’t try to be clever,” Phillip spits, and one of the burly men punches him again.

“Oh, I don’t _try_ ,” Eames replies, and grins through the punch that earns him. “I’m afraid you’ve gotten yourself mixed up somehow. Arthur who? I don’t know any Arthurs.”

“You’re in no position to be playing games with me. I saw you together at the restaurant last night. You’re perfectly aware of who Arthur is.”

“So _that’s_ his name. Such a pretty thing. Must have gotten all the good looks in the family.”

Phillip’s jaw clenches, but he doesn’t lash out. Instead, he sits in the comfortable leather chair across from Eames and narrows his eyes. “You can pretend all you want, but I saw the pathetic way he was watching you all through dinner last night. I left him a note, so he’ll know exactly where you are. He’ll be here.”

 

•

 

Three years ago, Arthur had left the Wolff Manor, intending to never see it again.

Yet, here he is. For Eames.

It’s very easy to break into a place he knows like the back of his hand. He remembers a childhood of sneaking out past the security at the perimeter. As it turns out, doing the opposite isn’t very different at all.

He gets in through a door for serving staff at the back of the large house. Once inside, he makes his way to Phillip’s room, putting his gun’s silencer on as he moves.

The door is open, but the room is empty. Arthur scowls, turning back and going downstairs, to Phillip’s study.

The door is shut this time, and he inches closer. There are voices coming from the room. One that Arthur can recognise as Phillip’s, and one that he immediately knows is Eames’.

Gun raised, he kicks the door open.

“Arthur,” he is greeted with Phillip pointing a gun at him. “Have you forgotten how to knock?”

“Let him go,” he snarls in reply.

“I don’t think so, little brother. We should talk. Why don’t you take a seat?”

“I have absolutely no intention—”

With a loud sigh, Phillip points his gun at Eames’ head and takes the safety off. “Drop the gun, Arthur. And sit down. Please.”

To Phillip’s credit, he doesn’t order the men to tie Arthur to his chair when he sits. Arthur waits for Phillip to lower the gun before he turns to Eames.

Eames looks absolutely calm. Arthur hopes that his own fear isn’t showing.

“That blood in your apartment,” Arthur says, “That wasn’t yours, was it?”

“Oh, god no.” Eames nods his head in the direction of one of the men behind Phillip, with a bandaged arm. “That was Lackey Number Two. I thought you knew me better than that, Arthur.”

Arthur’s lips curve upward. “Yeah, I do.”

“I’d hate to interrupt your reunion—”

“What do you want, Phillip?”

Phillip falters at the interruption, and glares at Arthur. “I know why you’re here.”

If Eames has ever thought there was even so much as a _touch_ of condescension in the way Arthur has ever looked at him, it’s nothing compared to the look he gives his brother.

“Oh really,” he says, voice flat. “Tell me.”

“You heard that Father wrote you out of the will last month.”

Arthur gives his brother a look of disbelief. “It took him this long?”

Phillip frowns. “Don’t pretend you don’t know. You’re here for money.”

Eames is the one who laughs. “I sincerely doubt that.”

“I’m not here for _anything_ from you,” Arthur says, his eyes dark with contempt. “I don’t want anything to do with you. I thought I made that clear when I got up and left. So if we’re finished, let _him_ go.”

“Why would I?” Phillip sneers. “As long as I have him here, I can demand what I like from you. You wouldn’t want to see him get hurt now, would you?”

“Now… even I wouldn’t go that far,” Eames speaks up, “and I tend to think fairly highly of myself.”

“Shut up. He’s come all the way back here just because of a note. That gun, Arthur—you’d shoot your own family for this… _man_.”

“I’d shoot _you_ ,” Arthur corrects.

Phillip scowls and hits Eames across the face. “For _this_ scum. I saw the two of you together at dinner last night. The way you were _looking_ at him. You wouldn’t lift a finger for Wolff Corp, but for _him_ —”

“Are you jealous?” Eames pipes up, which earns him another punch.

“You filthy bastard,” Phillip growls, rubbing his knuckles. “You _faggot_. If Father knew, he would have written you out of the will _years_ ago.”

“I know that,” Arthur says icily, and his glare hardens.

“You couldn’t have liked girls like a normal person and just find a goddamn wife. You just _had_ to go fall in love with some… some… whatever the fuck he is.”

“Thief,” Eames supplies with a brilliant smile.

Arthur sighs, deciding he’s had enough of this. Without looking away from his brother, he says, “Eames. Tell me you’ve untied yourself by now.”

“A long time ago, my dear.”

“Yeah? You could have _told_ me. Yusuf said to hold your breath for ten seconds.”

Phillip listens to the exchange in confusion. Arthur reaches into his pockets and withdraws two vials.

They shatter against the floor. Phillip and his two men pass out before they even realise what’s happening.

“Ten seconds,” Eames repeats, after taking two careful breaths. “He’s improved the compound. Used to be fifteen. Shall we?”

Arthur nods, but doesn’t move. “Before we leave…”

“Ah,” Eames follows his gaze to Phillip. “You’ve never liked leaving loose ends untied.”

“I don’t want him in my life any more. I don’t want any of this, ever again.”

Eames nods, propping Phillip up against the wall. “I’ll wake him. Same way they woke me,” and takes far too much delight in punching the man across the face, pinning him by the shoulders as soon as he regains consciousness.

“You don’t make any sense,” Phillip says to Arthur, his words slurring together. “You threw everything away. You’ve always had so much, and you ignore it even when it’s right in front of you.”

“Shut up,” Arthur orders, pointing his gun at Phillip. “I’m only going to say this once. I want nothing to do with the family, alright? You have no idea who I am, or who you’re dealing with. I have my own life, and I swear to you. If you try to follow me after this, there won’t be _anything_ stopping me from putting a bullet between your eyes.”

Phillip opens his mouth to protest, but Arthur takes the safety off his gun with a click. “Is that understood?”

“…Yes.”

“Good.” Arthur reaches across, finding the pressure point on Phillip’s neck to knock him out again.

“Family squabbles,” Eames says, shaking his head, “always ugly.”

“Mind your own business, Eames,” Arthur replies, getting to his feet. His words have no real heat in them, and even if Eames were offended, it would be promptly forgotten with the way Arthur smiles at him.

“Considering we’re already here,” Eames says, following him out, “would you like to steal anything? Or reclaim it, in your case? Your clocks, perhaps?”

Arthur shakes his head, not looking back. “I don’t need anything from here. They’ve probably thrown out my junk already. How about you? The art that you never ended up stealing?”

Eames catches up to Arthur and gives him a fond smile. “No. I already have the only thing I want from here.”

 

•

 

Arthur has already arranged for a new apartment, under a different alias. It barely takes Eames an hour to pack his belongings to move. Most of Arthur’s belongings live in boxes, and the rest are packed with a speed that speaks of how often he’s done this before.

Meticulous as always, Arthur has made sure that they are untraceable in their new apartment. They’re lying low, Arthur declares, and tends to Eames’ wounds, barely sleeping for two days as he keeps an eye out for Phillip and any other unwelcome company. Only Miles and Yusuf have been told of their new location.

Eames is properly healed after two days and is tired of Arthur alternatively fussing over him and refusing to sit down and have the serious conversation they so desperately need, about what they have come to mean to each other.

Of course, by the time Eames is out of bed, the swelling around his eye has gone down and he can walk without favouring his left leg, Arthur is completely worn out. His face is lined with grief and stress, even when he sleeps, curled on the couch that he’s more or less lived on while taking care of Eames.

He wakes and falls asleep intermittently through the day until he’s finally caught up on all the sleep he’s missed; something he’s never had to worry about when working. It’s four o’clock in the afternoon. Arthur is spread out on the couch and Eames walks out of the kitchen with two large mugs of tea. Arthur reaches out with his hand, and the look in his eyes makes it clear he’s not simply reaching for his tea.

Eames smiles at him, sets the mugs down on the coffee table, and sits on the carpet, just by Arthur’s head.

“Eames,” Arthur says, still reaching out.

“Right here,” Eames murmurs, taking Arthur’s fingers into his own and pressing his lips to them. “Were you worried for me?”

“You’re perfectly capable of taking care of yourself.”

“Yes, but that isn’t an answer.”

Arthur turns his head, looking into Eames’ eyes. He brings his hand to Eames’ cheek, thumb stroking over the stubble, and the fading bruise on his cheek. “God, I’m such an idiot.”

“Sometimes,” Eames concedes. “And then sometimes you can organise two pockets full of knock-out gas, an apartment halfway across town, and drive to your childhood home, all in less than twenty minutes. Before your first coffee for the day.”

Arthur laughs, and Eames sees the dimples he is in love with; the man he is in love with.

“I worried,” Arthur admits, pulling Eames close and speaking into his hair. “I knew you’d be fine, and I worried anyway.”

Eames chuckles against Arthur’s neck. “Perfect, point man Arthur, who never needs to worry about a thing? You worried about me? I’m flattered.”

“Only you would be happy for causing me trouble.”

“Darling,” Eames breathes, looking up, into Arthur’s eyes, with such sincerity that it makes his breath catch, “I’m only pleased that you _care_ .”

“Of course I care,” Arthur whispers. “I’ve always cared.”

Eames smiles as Arthur pulls him close. They kiss, for the first time in far too long, and it feels like everything has finally fallen back into place. Eames’ lips are even softer than Arthur remembers and he kisses them again, even harder, licking and nipping them. Eames moans softly, getting up onto his knees and turning around to face Arthur.

“Thank you for saving me.”

Arthur laughs, pulling Eames down for another kiss. “I waited for you to untie yourself and then knocked everyone out with Yusuf’s gas. I hardly did anything.”

“You know I hate hearing you sell yourself short, darling.” Eames grins affectionately and runs a hand through Arthur’s hair, “You know, I couldn’t help but notice that you’d gotten us a nice and spacious three-bedroom apartment, but it’s only got the one bed.”

“I’m sure you’ll find it big and comfortable enough for the two of us, Mr. Eames.”

“Most people sit down and talk things out before moving into an apartment together. With one bed. Not that I’m complaining, of course.”

“Well, we’re not exactly _most people_ , are we? With you, it’s never been a matter of sitting down and talking things through. We do things differently.”

“So how do we do it? Like those pendulum clocks of yours, falling into sync?”

Arthur smiles up at Eames. “I like that. Yes. Except we’re like pendulums swinging at different frequencies—until that one moment when we match up.”

“Are you saying we’ll fall back out of sync again?”

“You’re taking the metaphor too far. Luckily for us, we _aren’t_ really pendulums.”

“Oh really, now,” Eames chuckles and kisses Arthur’s forehead. “I love that you’re still the most condescending bastard I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing.”

“And you’re still maddening.”

“In a good way or a bad way?”

“Both.”

Eames laughs, pulling Arthur up to sit. “That’s what I like to hear. Now, as much as I’d love to drag you to off to our new bed and break it in, our tea’s getting cold.”

“You’re postponing sex for tea? Are you sure you weren’t hit too hard?”

“Very funny, Arthur. You haven’t had very much to eat or drink all day, so humour me. You don’t want me to turn into a fussy mother hen on you. I assure you; I’m even worse than you are.”

“I’m not a mother hen. And besides, you were kidnapped and beaten up,” Arthur points out, but accepts his mug without further protest. The tea is still warm and he takes a long gulp. “…You remember how I like my tea. I haven’t had tea with you since—I can’t even remember when. Paris.”

Eames simply smiles in reply and drinks his own tea, finishing it in barely a minute. Arthur drinks his own much slower, sip by sip, humming against the ceramic mug as Eames nuzzles against his neck and kisses it.

Arthur carries their mugs to the kitchen sink, and Eames gets up to follow him. He kisses the back of Arthur’s neck as he takes care of the washing, hands settling on the narrow, bony hips.

Arthur leans back into the touch and turns in Eames’ arms once he’s done. “You can’t keep your hands to yourself, can you?”

“I thought I was doing extremely well, these past few days,” Eames grins and presses a kiss to Arthur’s lips. “Compared to what I _wanted_ to do to you…”

“Oh, now I’m intrigued,” Arthur murmurs, tilting his head back as Eames kisses down his neck.

“I was hoping you would be.”

Eames takes Arthur’s hands, thumbs stroking over the soft skin, and pulls gently. Arthur follows, letting himself be pulled, occasionally tugging Eames back into a kiss. When Eames walks backward to the bed and sits, he’s smiling in a way Arthur can’t help but return.

“I love you,” Arthur says, without quite meaning to put his thoughts into words. There’s an initial lurch of panic, but then he can’t find it in himself to mind when he sees the way Eames’ smile grows impossibly wider.

“I had the sneaking suspicion you might,” Eames draws Arthur closer, pulling his knee up to brace against the mattress. “It feels wonderful to hear you say it, though.”

Arthur smiles, straddling Eames and kissing him hard. Then, Eames pulls back just far enough to murmur, “Love you, Arthur,” against his lips, and Arthur realises that it _does_ feel good to finally hear it. He files that information away for future reference, currently too preoccupied by the fact that they’re both hard, and Eames is grinding up against him.

“Fuck, Eames.”

Eames chuckles breathlessly, pressing kisses along Arthur’s jaw. Their bodies fit together as easily as they always had; Arthur pushes Eames down onto the bed, pinning his hands above his head and rocking their hips against each other.

“ _Oh_ , Arthur,” he gasps, arching into the touch, craving more. When they’re pressed together like this, he can feel the muscles that have grown firmer in the time they’ve been apart, the flexibility, the confidence behind his movements. Arthur has always been these things, but lying on the large, soft bed beneath him, Eames feels like he’s noticing it all again for the first time.

His breath hitches when Arthur untucks his shirt, unbuttoning it with one hand while the other slips underneath. He tries to help, fumbling with his buttons until they both manage to pull the lime green shirt off his shoulders and discard it onto the floor without a second thought.

Arthur bites his lower lip, his gaze roaming across Eames’ bare torso. His hands follow close behind and Eames lets out a long, shuddering sigh when he feels them slide down, across his stomach, past his navel, and settle on the bulge of his clothed erection.

“So hard, for me,” Arthur whispers, running his fingers along the outline of Eames’ cock. He smiles when Eames grunts, thrusting into the touch. “Do you have any idea of what _I_ want to do to _you_?”

“Tell me,” Eames gasps, his hips lifting from the mattress, his head spinning, and enjoying himself far too much to be bothered by the way Arthur can turn the tables against him so easily.

“I’m going to strip you naked,” Arthur murmurs, still stroking him through his trousers. “I’m going to suck you off until you come, right into my mouth. I’m going to make you _scream_ , Mr. Eames, and then I’m going to fuck myself on your cock. And that’s just the beginning.”

“Oh god yes,” Eames moans, as Arthur unzips his pants and slips a hand inside. “ _Yes_. I’ve missed that sinfully dirty mouth of yours, darling.”

Arthur smirks, and Eames thinks that he might just implode right then and there. His fingers dig into the sheets beneath him and he lifts his hips obediently to allow Arthur to pull his pants and underwear off. Arthur looks up at him, holding Eames’ gaze as he bows his head, swallowing him.

“Arthur,” he gasps, breaking eye contact and letting his head fall back, his eyes turned to the ceiling. Arthur’s mouth is hot, wet, and amazing, his tongue moving across the underside of his cock. Eames loosens his grip on the sheets, moving one hand to rest on Arthur’s head, his fingers running through the dark hair, massaging his scalp. Arthur moans appreciatively and the sounds sends a shudder through Eames’ entire body.

Arthur pulls back until it’s just the tip of Eames’ cock in his mouth and he sucks slowly, licking and kissing it before he leans back far enough to say, “Look at you, dripping all over the fucking place.”

His voice is low and rough, and his lips are wet. Eames doesn’t have the mental functions to even think coherently and he simply gapes, his eyes wide and mouth open. Arthur chuckles, which nearly sends him over, but then that glorious mouth is on him once again and this time, it’s accompanied by Arthur’s long fingers, massaging his balls and slipping further past them, trailing along the sensitive skin just underneath, and Eames is swearing loudly, his hips jerking of their own accord.

“Eames,” Arthur gasps, pulling away, holding Eames’ hips still, licking his wet, swollen lips. “Eames. I want you to fuck my mouth.”

The warmth surrounds his cock again and Eames tries to be gentle, he truly tries, but his grip on Arthur’s hair is too tight, his movements too jerky, and he doesn’t have the self control to do anything but thrust, swear, and moan a mantra of _Arthur, Arthur, Arthur_. He can hear and feel the low moans that come from the back of Arthur’s throat and it’s this one final thing he needs, this knowledge that Arthur is getting off on this just as much as he is. He doesn’t even have the time to wonder at the fact that they fit together so well, like this; it sends him over, his grip on Arthur tightening, a wordless moan spilling from his lips, and his cock spurting hot, thick streams of come as Arthur swallows around him.

“Good god, Arthur.” Eames is panting heavily, but that’s never kept him from talking before. “One would think you’d spent almost as much time tossing off to this fantasy as I have.”

Arthur smiles, and doesn’t resist when Eames pulls him close to kiss him deeply.

“Let’s get you undressed now, shall we?” asks Eames, already undoing Arthur’s shirt. “If that’s just the beginning, I’m _terribly_ eager to see what else you have in store.”

 

•

 

They spend the following week—and then, by Eames’ persuasion, another—in a blissful daze, content to postpone work and all other concerns in favour of spending their time together. They’re reconnecting, relearning each other, and if that occasionally means they spend a great majority of the day in bed, neither of them are inclined to protest. The only times they leave their private little world of each other are when, every couple of days, they make the trip up to the Cobbs’ house to check on the children, and to speak with Miles and Annie.

They settle into their new apartment together easily; it is big enough that they have their own space, and still cosy enough for them to be together. They spend an hour one morning setting up Eames’ office in one of the spare bedrooms; a desk, a swivel chair, and a cork board. Eames promptly pins a photo of Arthur onto it, smiling cheerfully and refusing to say _where_ he’d gotten it in the first place, until he’s forced to take it back down. The second spare room becomes Arthur’s workspace, but aside from the computer desk he’s set up in one corner, he leaves the rest of his books and files in their boxes, spending three entire hours setting up his watchmaking table, hanging his clocks on the wall and sorting out the unfinished ones.

“Ah, your clocks,” Eames murmurs once they’re all arranged to Arthur’s satisfaction. “Because of course, no home is complete without at least three timepieces in the same room, right?”

Arthur swats Eames’ wandering hands away with a small smile. “Just for that, I’m going to lock myself up with my watchmaking tools all day.”

“Is that a double entendre? I’m unsure whether or not I want it to be, depending on which side of this locked door I’ll be on.”

“ _No_ , Eames,” Arthur snorts quietly. “It means I’m going to make a new watch, and you’ll have to find something to do for at least the next two hours.”

“What? Without you? However am I going to survive?”

“Go and find something fun for us to steal,” Arthur says, as Eames pulls him into a long kiss.

“There’s still that vase waiting for us,” Eames points out, “but I’m more than willing to make an entire list of things to steal.”

“Have fun with that. And don’t get into trouble you can’t get out of.”

“And have fun with those clocks of yours. But not too much. I wouldn’t want to get jealous.”

“I’ll try,” Arthur replies with a wry grin.

Eames returns two and a half hours later with a list of paintings and sculptures, and a bouquet of roses that the poor, flustered shop assistant at the florist across town still hasn’t realised she’d forgotten to charge him for.

“Did you find anything nice?” Arthur greets him from the couch.

Eames smirks. “A gorgeous man in his mid-twenties lying on my couch, just asking to be ravished.”

“So charming, Eames.”

“C’mere.”

“You come here,” Arthur replies, and Eames grins, crossing the room to the couch.

“I saw these roses and thought of you.”

“Really, now.”

“Just look at them. All skinny and long, with prickly thorns all over.” Eames chuckles. “But still prettier than anything has any right to be.”

“I may swoon, Eames.”

“I finally have you all figured out, my dear. Condescension is your own special form of foreplay.”

“Very funny.” Arthur sits up and pulls Eames down onto the couch beside him. “I made this for you.”

Eames raises his eyebrows at the small, black box Arthur hands him. He opens it carefully, mouth opening in a silent gasp as he pulls out the silver pocket watch with the attached chain.

“You—made this. For me?”

Arthur shrugs as casually as he can manage, while ducking his head and looking away. “Well, I didn’t really need to make another one for myself, so—”

“Arthur,” Eames interrupts, pulling him into a deep kiss. “Thank you. It’s wonderful.”

Arthur smiles, and his dimples show. “Glad you like it.”

Arthur gets up to find a place for his roses, and Eames follows him around, fiddling with his pocket watch and finally clipping it to his pants. Neither of them comment on the fact that they’ve both gone out of their way to exchange presents.

They pretend to ignore the fact that today marks a month since Mal jumped from the ledge of a hotel room. They pretend they aren’t trying to distract themselves from the fact that it’s been a month and they still haven’t heard any more from Dom.

If Arthur clings too tightly, or Eames is gentler than normal that night, neither of them make any mention of it.

 

•

 

Dom calls the very next day. Miles has given him Arthur’s number, and they talk for a long time, about the children, and about Miles and Annie. They save the most important part of the conversation to the very end, after they’ve already been talking for an hour. Eames is sitting on the couch, shoulder to shoulder with Arthur, who sighs and finally asks:

“Have you found a way home yet?”

There’s a beat of silence, and then Dom sighs. “No. Nothing that clear just yet. But I have an idea.”

“An idea,” Arthur repeats, and Eames looks up, paying attention to the one side of the conversation he can hear.

“There’s only one thing I can do right now, and that’s extracting. If I get enough money, or if I make the right connections, I can find a way to buy my way back. Pay off the authorities. Fix my charges.”

Arthur’s shoulders slump. “Dom. Do you even know how long that’s going to take?”

“No, I don’t. But if I’m going to get back into extracting, I’m going to need a point man, Arthur. I’m going to need you to help me.”

Arthur catches Eames’ gaze and holds it when he says, “You want me to join you.”

Eames frowns at this, watching Arthur intently.

“Yeah. I’ll give you the details—”

“I’m bringing Eames with me,” Arthur says, raising an eyebrow at Eames as he says this. Eames nods, and he relaxes.

“No.”

“No?” Arthur repeats, frowning.

“We’re keeping our team small. We don’t need a forger—”

“We’ll find something for him to do. I’m bringing him.”

“Damn it, Arthur, you can’t. It’ll be just the two of us—I’ll build the levels, you dream them, and I’ll extract.”

“You’re not listening, Dom. Would you have left Mal behind if someone asked you to?”

Eames’ eyes widen at this, at what it means, but Arthur doesn’t look away.

“What does Mal—oh. You and Eames are…”

“Yes, we are.”

“That complicates things.”

“It shouldn’t.”

“I’m sorry, Arthur. I don’t trust Eames that much.”

If he were speaking to anybody else, Arthur would promptly hang up. Instead, he takes a breath and replies, “Well, I do.”

“I need your help for this. I’ll get this done as soon as possible, I swear. I know I can rely on you. For the kids. For Mal.”

Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose and frowns. “Fine. We’ll get this over with as soon as possible.”

“It’ll take us three months, tops.”

“Three months,” Arthur repeats, for Eames. “At most.”

They hang up shortly after, and Arthur throws his phone onto the table with a huff.

“You alright?” Eames asks, already knowing the answer.

“He doesn’t trust you,” Arthur growls, raking a hand through his hair and glaring at his phone. “He’s not letting me bring you with me.”

Eames runs his thumb across Arthur’s lips with a small smile. “I don’t have very much of a right to be offended when I go out of my way to give off that very impression.”

“ _I_ trust you. That should be enough.”

“But darling, it is. Knowing that is enough for me.”

Arthur sighs, his hands going up to hold the sides of Eames’ face. “It’ll only be three months.”

Eames shakes his head, “Even if it takes longer than that, you’ll stay with Cobb until this mess is sorted out. You’d never turn your back on him, and hell if you’re going to start now.”

“We’ll get this done as soon as possible.”

“You’d better,” Eames grins. “I didn’t make an entire list of things to steal for no reason. And I really do want to steal that vase.”

“You’re the one doing all the stealing. You don’t need me.”

“Yes I do.” Eames kisses him on the mouth, lips smacking loudly. “So when do you need to leave? And am I allowed to know where you’re going?”

“I have two days. Dom specifically told me not to tell you, but… fuck it, I’ll be meeting him in Zurich. I don’t know where we’ll go after that.”

Eames nods. Two days, with a visit to Miles and Annie somewhere in between. He can handle that.

But yet, once they’re parting ways at the departure gate at the airport, Eames is reluctant to let go of Arthur.

“Promise me,” he says, his thumbs stroking the backs of Arthur’s hands. “Promise you’ll call at the first chance you get. In secret, if you must.”

“When did you become so damn clingy?” Arthur grins a little, but they both know it’s forced. “Fine. I’ll call if it makes you that happy.”

“Good.”

Arthur looks over his shoulder at the departure gate and clears his throat. “…I need to go.”

“Of course.” Eames’ grip on Arthur tighten before he lets go, his own hands disappearing into his pockets. His fingers close around the pocket watch he’s begun to carry with him, and he nods his goodbye as Arthur picks up his bags and turns away.

Eames stands there, long after Arthur has disappeared in the press of people. In his line of work; surviving as long as he has, being as good as he is, he’s developed a keen sense for trouble. Even after he finally returns home to the apartment that feels far too big, Eames broods over the dull sense of panic at the back of his mind, telling him that something is going to go wrong. It’s only made worse by the fact that Arthur’s expression had told him that he’d felt the exact same thing.

 

•


	4. Part Four.

  
_  
**Part Four.**   
_   
  


  
_(who are you to make me feel so good?)_   


It’s eight in the morning when Arthur’s flight lands. He opens his moleskine to check the directions Dom had given him to their meeting place, taking a moment to remember his way around Zurich from his last time here before shutting the notebook and placing it back in his messenger bag.

He’s already organised for a new phone with a private number, and heads off to the café to meet Dom only after he’s picked it up.

It’s been a month since Dom’s been on the run, and four months since Arthur has last seen him. He’s lost some weight and gained a haunted look that dulls his usually-bright eyes, and Arthur sighs, the sight reaffirming his suspicions that not only will he need to be the perfect point man in their extraction jobs, he’s also going to be the one holding Dom together.

“How are you, Arthur?” Dom asks, looking up as he sits down.

“More importantly, how are _you_?”

“Absolutely fine,” Dom replies in a tone that says he isn’t even fooling himself. “I’ve got two tickets to Rome for tomorrow morning, I think I’ve found us a job there.”

“A job that can get you back home?”

“Not yet. We’re going to make some money before we can take on the bigger jobs. We’ll have to make a name for ourselves first.”

Arthur nods. Last time, it had been Mal who’d had the right people whispering about the most formidable team of extractors. This time, he’ll need to do it himself. Or…

“I’m going to call Eames,” he says and ignores the way Dom shakes his head. “Look, Dom. If we’re going to do this—if you’re going to get back home as soon as possible—you’re going to need help. More than just mine.”

“We’re not going to use Eames just because the two of you…”

“Were finally figuring out this thing between us?” Arthur supplies, forcing himself to keep the frustration out of his voice. “Look, I’m dropping everything to help you sort this out and get home. I’m not complaining. I’m just going to need some time with Eames. I’m not screwing this up again. Besides—you want someone to spread a rumour? You know Eames is the best for that.”

Dom nods reluctantly. Arthur calls a waiter over to order himself some food, and reaches for his phone, doing his best not to show how eager he is to be making this phone call.

 

•

 

It’s a little past midnight, and Eames is watching Tom and Jerry reruns when his phone rings. He mutes the television and grabs his phone off the table within the first ring.

“Hello Arthur,” he purrs, well aware that he is grinning like an idiot.

“Hey Eames.”

“You never sound this happy to be talking to me when we’re together. Do you miss me, darling?”

“Please. It’s only been fourteen hours,” Arthur replies, which translates into a firm _yes_.

“Ah, you’ve been counting,” Eames chuckles. “How was your flight?”

“There was a stewardess, a blonde, who reminded me of one of your favourite forgeries.”

“It hasn’t even been a day and you’re _already_ making me jealous, Arthur? You’re even crueller than I’d feared. How is Cobb?”

“What do you think?” Arthur replies, and Eames can hear the faint worry in his voice.

“Well, send him my regards. And tell him I want you back as quickly as possible.”

“I’m fairly sure he knows. By the way, I have a favour to ask.”

“Anything for you.”

“We’re going to need you to spread a few rumours about Dom.”

“I see. The way Mal used to?” Eames hums in thought, rubbing his chin. “Where will you be working from?”

“Rome.”

“Oh, brilliant. That should be very simple. Give me a week and there’ll be whispers about the two of you everywhere it matters. You’ll have no trouble finding jobs.”

“Good. Thank you.”

“Oh, you can thank me when you next see me, love.”

Arthur grins despite himself. “I plan to. I need to go. I’ll let you get some sleep.”

“Be safe, Arthur,” Eames murmurs, his tone a touch more serious than usual. “I love you.”

Arthur’s gaze flicks up to Dom, who is studying his mug of coffee with intense concentration, and he looks down at his feet, lowering his voice. “Love you. Good night.”

True to his word, Eames ensures that the rumours of Dom and Arthur, the ruthless extractor duo, spread like wildfire from every corner of the dream sharing underworld and dark recesses of the corporate world. In a matter of hours, they’re back in business as though they had never left.

 

•

 

By the first week, they already have two jobs under their belts and quite a comfortable amount of money to keep them going. Everything is proceeding perfectly.

Except for the one small problem of Mal showing up in every one of Dom’s dreams.

At first, Arthur understands. Dom misses her—more than he can even bear. It makes perfect sense for his projection of her to seep into his dreams. However, Arthur quickly discovers that this is a projection that Dom cannot suppress, the way they normally do for jobs. Mal turns up whether Dom wants it or not and to make matters much worse, this projection of her is nothing like the real thing.

The projection is cold to Arthur, possessive of Dom, and does all she can to keep them separated. She doesn’t kill Arthur to kick him out of the dream space; she tortures him instead and Dom is powerless to do anything but continue on with the job.

By the end of the second extraction, Arthur can barely move from the pain and it’s all he can do to stay hidden, picking off the raging projections one bullet at a time, while he desperately hopes Dom will have the information they need before he bleeds out and the dream collapses.

He calls Eames that night, because he doesn’t want to listen to Dom beating himself up over something he can’t control, and he can’t be left with his own thoughts when they keep returning to the mental image of himself slowly bleeding to death.

“Good morning, love,” Eames greets over the phone, his voice rough with sleep.

“About time you got out of bed,” Arthur replies, quickly making the conversion, “It’s nearly midday for you.”

“Miss you too.” Eames yawns loudly, and Arthur has to stifle a yawn of his own on the other end. “How are those rumours doing? I trust you’re encouraging them along?”

“Of course,” Arthur replies. His voice sounds hollow, even to himself. Without a doubt, Eames has noticed this, but he doesn’t comment.

“I see you’ve been doing some dream sharing of your own,” Arthur says, before Eames can change his mind about this. “Forging again?”

“Of course,” Eames replies cheerfully. “Being excluded from the Cobb-and-Arthur club made me want to find a little trouble of my own.”

“Eames, I—”

“I’m not blaming you, darling,” Eames cuts him off, “nor do I particularly envy your job of having to hold Cobb together. But it’s about time I gave my imagination a good stretch. And of course, there are perks to lucid dreaming.”

“Perks?” Arthur asks. “Other than pretending you’re a woman?”

“Oh, most definitely,” Eames chuckles. “At least when I’m hooked to a PASIV, I can see you.”

“You’re—you’re talking about projections,” Arthur’s stomach lurches at the thought. He thinks of Dom. Of Mal…

“Does that bother you?” Eames asks. “I wouldn’t want you to be jealous of yourself.”

“No,” he lies, running a hand through his hair. “Not at all. I doubt that even your projection of me would let you neglect your actual work.”

“Oh, but you can be so distracting,” Eames purrs. “Both of you. On a related note, I think I know exactly how you can thank me for those rumours…”

“In your dreams.”

“Precisely.” Eames’ shit-eating grin is clear through his tone. “Mm, that gives me something to look forward to.”

“Eames,” Arthur lets out a resigned sigh. “It’s not even midday for you and you’ve just woken up. Get your hand out of your boxers.”

“Arthur,” Eames replies, breathy and persuasive. “I can tell you’ve had a long day. Get your hand _into_ yours. I want to hear you.”

“Damn it, Eames. I hate you.”

“You love me, Arthur.”

 

•

 

Sometimes, Mal can be outsmarted. Arthur figures out exactly how to keep her too distracted to interfere by their fifth job, and things would go perfectly if not for the fact that Dom falters each and every time he sees her.

Out of five jobs, one has gone smoothly, three have been close calls, and one has been an utter failure.

“We’re going to need an architect,” Dom finally says one night, when they’re having dinner in an unremarkable bar in Syracuse.

Arthur raises an eyebrow, and Dom shrugs. “Three people might make our work a little easier, too.”

It takes a considerable amount of Arthur’s willpower to keep from asking why this isn’t the case with Eames. The only reason he doesn’t is because it sounds far too bitter, even in his head.

“Where are you going to find a good architect?” he asks instead.

“We shouldn’t have every much trouble, thanks to Eames. If word gets out that we’re looking for an architect, and you do background checks on everyone who approaches us… I’ll take care of the rest.”

Arthur nods. “I’ll give Eames another call.”

Dom smiles a little. “Any excuse will do, huh?”

Arthur doesn’t point out that when Mal was alive, she and Dom would talk for hours on the phone if they’d spent so much as a day apart. “What can I say? He’s easier to tolerate on the phone.”

“Just don’t take this for granted, alright?” Dom gives him a sad smile. “If I’ve learned anything, it’s that.”

“Never,” Arthur replies honestly.

Later that night, when he calls Eames, he begins with, “I miss you.”

“Now that’s a pleasant surprise. Is something wrong?”

Arthur shuts his eyes. Mal isn’t as aggressive as she initially was, but she’s still there in every dream, making sure that it never runs smoothly—that this entire plan to help Dom return home will never run smoothly.

“Everything’s fine.”

“You know, one of the things I’ve gotten out of being a professional liar is the ability to spot when others are doing it. You aren’t even making me try today.”

Arthur sighs. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to talk about it.”

Eames sighs, and for a moment, Arthur misses him so much that it physically hurts. “I won’t push.”

“Thank you.” Arthur means it, knowing he’d be demanding an explanation if their situations were reversed.

“How’s work? Are there any more rumours to spread? I forgot how fun it is to do that.”

“There is one thing. We need an architect.”

Arthur can tell that Eames is frowning. “But isn’t Cobb—”

“I don’t know. But the more team members we have, the more levels we can have.”

There’s a silence, and then, “Any room for a forger?”

“No. Not yet.”

“Don’t get my hopes up, Arthur. That’s just cruel.”

“Dom doesn’t want—”

“What do _you_ want?”

“I want to be home, with you,” Arthur admits. “But I want Dom to get out of this mess.”

Eames sighs heavily. “It never is simple with you, darling, is it? I’m lucky there are ample opportunities to forge, here, or I’d be going mad waiting for this business with Cobb to be over. But don’t worry. I’ll spread the word you’re hiring—you’ll be up to the ears with architect applications soon enough. I’ll let you know if I find anyone particularly remarkable. I’ll do anything I can if it speeds things up.”

“Thank you.”

“Enough of work. Tell me, did I ever tell you the story about that antique brooch I stole about a year ago?”

Eames hasn’t, but Arthur already knows the details. Closing his eyes and leaning back in his chair, he murmurs, “Tell me,” and relaxes as much as he possibly can to the soothing rumble of his lover’s voice.

 

•

 

Arthur’s phone rings, and he doesn’t even need to look at the screen to know who it is. With a sigh, he lifts it to his ear.

“Where did you get this number?”

“That’s not a very polite way to answer your phone,” Eames tells him, “and I have my sources.”

“I’ve gone out of my way to make it impossible to trace.”

“Anything’s possible with the right amount of imagination, darling. Tell me. What are you wearing?”

“Eames, I’m at lunch with Dom, this is hardly the appropriate time—”

“One of your suits, then.”

Arthur sighs, knowing Eames won’t leave him alone unless he plays along. “Light grey.”

“With a white shirt underneath? Pinstriped?”

“Green pinstripes. Can we stop—”

“And a dark grey tie with checks on it. You’re wearing your favourite black, leather shoes.”

“What the fuck, Eames.” Arthur’s eyes narrow. “Do you have someone stalking me?”

“Please, give me a little credit. Turn around.”

“What—?” Arthur looks at Dom, who grins at him before looking at a point over his shoulder. “I swear, Eames, if you’re getting my hopes up for no reason…”

“Just turn around, darling.”

Arthur turns slowly, frowning when he sees nobody there. “Damn it, Eames—”

“Well it’s not _my_ fault you’re too bloody slow,” Eames’ voice says right against his ear, this time accompanied by the ghosting of warm breath. He turns and Eames gives him a self-satisfied smirk as he settles into the third chair at the table, that Arthur hadn’t given a second thought to, up until now. “Hello, darling.”

Arthur simply stares, at a loss for words. He turns to Dom. “What…?”

“It’s your birthday tomorrow,” Dom says, like he’s expecting Arthur to have forgotten. “You’ve been spending too much worrying about _me_ lately. I figured you’d appreciate a couple of days off.”

“So he recruited me,” Eames adds with a bright smile, stealing some chips from Arthur’s plate. “To make sure you don’t squander your free time on _work_.”

“You say that like it’s a dirty word,” Arthur says, pulling his plate out of Eames’ reach. “Dom, will _you_ be okay with a break?”

Since they’ve started taking extraction jobs, Arthur has noticed the way Dom is distracted from his grief when they’re working. He desperately wants his time alone with Eames, but his concern for Dom comes first.

“I’m fine, Arthur. Be selfish for once, would you? This is the plan: I’m going to cover the bill for lunch and you aren’t going to protest. After that, I don’t want to see you until the day after tomorrow. If I find out you’ve done even the tiniest bit of work in between… well, I’m going to have to reconsider hiring a forger for our next job.”

“What—Dom, you never told me you were taking my suggestions seriously.”

“I always do.” Dom nods at Eames. “I don’t think I’ll need to worry about Arthur working too much with you here. So now that’s out of the way, let’s get another menu so you can order.”

Arthur looks as though he is still trying to process what is happening, and Eames chuckles as the waiter jots down his order.

“Only _you_ would need to be coerced into actually enjoying yourself on your birthday. Not to worry, I have _plans_.”

“That’s supposed to make me worry less?” Arthur mutters, but he makes a mental note to take Dom aside before they leave and thank him sincerely for this.

 

•

 

That afternoon, Eames takes Arthur to an art gallery and drags him from sculpture to sculpture, explaining their origins and history even better than the halting attempts being made by the art major on a date with his girlfriend a little to their right.

Arthur is undeniably impressed, and possibly a little more in love, soaking in all the information he can.

“I never knew you had an actual appreciation for art,” he comments with a wry grin when they’re walking outside in the gallery’s gardens. “Here I thought you were only interested in stealing it from one place and selling it to another.”

“I’ll have you know I studied art and history in university,” Eames replies, his arm curling around Arthur’s waist and drawing him closer. “It helps to be able to judge the value of things. I only steal things that look _very good_ to me.”

Arthur doesn’t miss the way Eames does a quick once-over as he speaks. He snorts quietly and pushes the forger away by the shoulders. “You’re a shameless flirt.”

“Mm, but it’s working, isn’t it?”

Looking back at Eames, Arthur gives him a lopsided grin. “Do you really need to try? I was of the impression I owed you a very interesting _thank you_ when we returned to my apartment.”

“Oh Christ, you’re actually going to let me?”

Arthur brings his mouth to Eames’ ear. “I promise you. The moment we get back to my place, we’ll hook ourselves up to my PASIV and you can do _anything_ you want with me and your projection. There’s only one condition.”

“Are you sure it’s not _my_ birthday?” Eames’ voice is rough with anticipation. “What’s the catch?”

Arthur takes a step back and watches him carefully. “I don’t want you making any more projections of me after this.”

“Possessive little bastard, aren’t you?” Eames smiles fondly. “Fine. Gladly.”

“Good,” Arthur replies, leading the way back into the gallery.

Eames finds it a little more difficult to focus on the stories behind the sculptures, with his mind wandering to exactly what he wants to do with Arthur and… Arthur. He mumbles his way through two more sculptures and gives up.

Luckily for him, Arthur has also decided that he’s had enough. He leads the way back to his apartment and Eames eagerly follows.

“Can I at least get to kiss you hello before we go under?” Eames asks, as Arthur sets up the PASIV with an efficiency that he didn’t have just two months ago. He takes Arthur by the shoulders and turns him around, pulling him into a deep kiss. His hands spread across Arthur’s back, feeling the muscles under the light grey jacket, noticing the way they’ve become more tense in the time that has passed. There are lines on his face that speak of stress, about how demanding it must be to take care of Dom even though he makes it seem so easy. Eames notices all of these things, because it’s his job to notice, because he loves Arthur enough to be bothered by what it means, and because he hates the fact that he’s glad he doesn’t need to share the burden.

“Let’s dream,” Arthur murmurs against Eames’ lips when he pulls away, as if it’s a simple solution to everything. Eames wonders if that’s Dom’s influence.

“I’ll dream everything up,” he murmurs, thumb stroking Arthur’s lower lip. “I already have a place planned out.”

“I look forward to meeting your projection of me,” Arthur smirks, handing Eames his IV line. “I hope you at least dress him nicely.”

“Only the finest for my love,” Eames declares, sitting on the bed and pulling Arthur down beside him before adding, “Not that clothes ever matter for long.”

“You’re terrible.”

“And you love me.”

Arthur shakes his head with a small smile, reaching out to depress the large, yellow button. “Go to sleep, Mr. Eames.”

 

•

 

One Arthur, Eames decides, is mind-blowingly brilliant.

Two Arthurs…

Well, Eames doesn’t think his brain is currently functioning well enough to think of something better than _mind-blowingly brilliant_. So far, his best attempt has produced, “Oh, Jesus fucking Christ, _yes_.”

He hadn’t known what to expect from the two of them. For all his theorising, he wasn’t sure how they would react when faced with each other. He certainly hadn’t expected them to be so close to being in sync when they descended upon him.

He wonders what that means about how well he knows Arthur.

He can easily distinguish between the real Arthur, who is on his knees between Eames’ legs and undoing his trousers, and the projected Arthur, who is undressing Eames and sucking on his neck.

His subconscious is clever, and he can tell that his projection of Arthur changes with every moment the real Arthur is in his dream, feeding off his actions, making adjustments, constantly just one step behind the real thing.

“Are you going to marvel at your subconscious all night, or are you going to help me?” Arthur the projection murmurs into his ear.

“I know you’re fascinated by all of this, but I don’t think you’ll be enjoying yourself if you’re trying to take everything in,” the real Arthur joins in.

“I’m being lectured by two of you. Why did I not see this coming?”

“I’m glad you’re just as unwilling to sit back and let him do as he pleases as I am,” the real Arthur says. And then he pulls his projected self into a kiss.

Eames is fairly certain that he’s died and gone to heaven.

“You—you’re evil. Both of you. I hope you know that,” Eames says, as they both push him down onto the large bed, covered with silk sheets and surrounded by candles. Watching the way the candlelight dances along Arthur’s muscles makes him think that perhaps candles aren’t as much of a terribly overdone romantic thing as they are a very damn _sexy_ thing.

The real Arthur is just that little more aggressive in bed than the projection and Eames tries to take notice of all these little differences, but it’s so very difficult when there are two mouths, four hands and two very erect cocks—three, counting his own—that are demanding attention right away.

Arthur is indulgent, compliant with every one of Eames’ desires, and absolutely determined to do anything he wants. He barely notices that Eames’ projection of him is gone until they’re disentangling themselves from each other and he looks around.

“Didn’t feel like sharing,” Eames says by the way of an explanation.

“With your own subconscious?” Arthur asks, “Possessive bastard, aren’t you?”

“Does this surprise you at all?” Eames asks, stroking the side of Arthur’s face. “How much time do we have left here?”

“Three minutes,” Arthur replies, not having to check.

They get dressed, and Eames takes Arthur by the hand, leading him out into a night garden that he creates as they walk.

“Won’t your projections get unsettled?”

“It’s just me,” Eames replies. “And you. I doubt somebody’s projections would attack anyone they truly cared for, if it was their own dream.”

Arthur slides his hand out of Eames’ grip and wraps his arms around himself, shivering for good measure.

It would be so easy to tell him about Mal, right here, with nobody else to hear them, without having to worry about facing Dom for another day.

“Eames,” he begins, but he can’t continue. He thinks of the tortured look on Dom’s face whenever she appears… whenever she shoots Arthur. This is his burden to bear, and he can’t let it weigh Eames down too.

“What’s wrong?” Eames’ voice is just a touch harder, the way it is when he knows Arthur is hiding something.

“I—” Arthur begins, knowing he won’t need to finish the sentence. Their three minutes are up.

 

•

 

“You what?”

“I missed you.” Technically, Arthur isn’t lying.

“Oh, darling,” Eames murmurs, not probing any further, and Arthur wonders just how terrible the expression on his face must be to have Eames believe it so easily, “I missed you too.”

Arthur sits back up, pulling the needle out of his wrist and winding the tube back into the PASIV case.

“How do you want to celebrate your birthday tomorrow?” Eames asks, helping him put everything away.

“I thought you had plans.”

“I plan on spoiling you rotten, but I’m rather flexible after that point.”

“And did you plan on us leaving my apartment at all?” Arthur asks with an amused smile as he puts the PASIV away.

“Of _course_ I did," Eames replies in mock-offense. “I hear there are actually _fun_ things you can do in a city when you’re not working yourself to death, imagine that. We’re going sight-seeing.”

“Exploring historical architecture and listening to you tell the stories behind them,” Arthur smiles, considering it. “That does sound like fun.”

“Of course it does. Pretend all you like, but I know you haven’t forgotten how to have fun. Did you know Cobb was _concerned_ about you?”

“About _me_?” Arthur frowns. “As if he doesn’t have enough to worry about?”

“He’s caught up in the grief of losing Mal, and he still noticed that you’re overworking yourself. Birthday or not, he was going to force you to take a day off.” Eames pauses for a moment, letting that sink in, and then smiles. “So we’re going to make the best out of tomorrow, because it’s my head on a plate if you don’t look even the tiniest bit more relaxed by the time we see Dom again. I think the fact that he went out of his way to call me here itself says a lot.”

Arthur nods. “Fine. I _can_ have fun, you know. I’m not actually a robot.”

“Of course you’re not. You just like pretending sometimes.” Looking out of the window as the sun slowly sets, Eames pulls the cuffs of his sleeves back down and says, “I’ve already made us a reservation for dinner. And I have a small, early birthday present for you after that. We have three hours until dinner, why don’t you show me around your neighbourhood?”

Arthur dismisses the idea with a shake of his head. “I’ve never really explored this place. I’d have no idea what to show you.”

“Brilliant,” Eames declares. “We’re going exploring, then.”

They walk in the opposite direction to the way Arthur goes to work, and find a large park with gardens throughout it and a lake in the centre. They easily spend two hours there, exploring the place, and committing it to memory to be replicated in dreams. Eames insists on playing a one-sided version of hide-and-seek in the hedge maze, and Arthur humours him, pretending that he isn’t smiling.

Arthur turns a corner in the maze, knowing Eames is lurking somewhere behind him. Eames is almost silent; Arthur only knows that he’s there because he knows him so well, and knows what to listen for. He waits, and judges the precise moment to turn, just as Eames makes to tackle him. They grab onto each other and Eames’ momentum makes them stagger and overbalance. Eames lets out a loud whoop as they crash onto the grass.

“Oh. Did I not tell you we were playing hide-and-seek-and-tackle? I win this round.”

“That doesn’t count,” Arthur says, as sternly as he can manage when he’s trying not to laugh. “You don’t win just because we ended up on the ground. I heard you coming, it was just your utter lack of balance. You’ll need to try harder if you want to sneak up on me, Eames.”

“Of course, “Eames chuckles. “Because I didn’t sneak up on your today at lunch, at all.”

“That doesn’t count either—”

Eames hushes him with a finger on his lips and grins. “And you’re assuming I actually wanted to sneak up on you, not drag you down onto the ground and do whatever I wanted with you.”

“We’re in _public_ , Eames.”

“And if all I wanted was a kiss?”

Arthur pauses, studying Eames’ expression and committing the soft look in his eyes to memory. Not even caring to look around at their surroundings, he leans in to press their lips together. Eames hums happily, holding the sides of Arthur’s face and kissing him back.

Somehow, it’s this, rather than finally having Eames naked and to himself, that makes the tension in Arthur’s chest and shoulders slowly ease away. He’s sitting in the middle of a maze, kissing Eames and ignoring the rest of the world. He hasn’t felt this happy for the past two months.

When Eames finally pulls away, he places a kiss on the tip of Arthur’s nose and smiles. “Shall we head back? We ought to get ready for dinner.”

The restaurant is, unsurprisingly, Italian, but it’s clear that Eames has done his research. The décor suits Arthur’s taste impeccably, from the low lighting to the smooth curves and sharp lines of the interior. Eames wears a suit without a tie, leaving his collar unbuttoned, but the effect it has on Arthur is very reminiscent of that restaurant with a vase they’re yet to steal. Arthur stares blatantly and doesn’t even bother to hide it this time. Eames soaks up the attention, touching Arthur’s hands at every opportunity he gets and leans across the table in an effort to be as close to him as possible.

“So why are we doing the dinner tonight?” Arthur asks when they’re having dessert. “Isn’t it a day early?”

Eames smirks, “I knew I wanted to take you out to dinner. I just wasn’t very sure if we’d be able to leave your apartment tomorrow night.”

Arthur quirks an eyebrow, his lips curving into a smile. “Of _course_ you’d plan around the sex.”

“Would you expect any different?” Eames asks, motioning to a waiter for the bill.

“Of course not.”

Eames leads the way out of the restaurant and back to the apartment, where he busies himself by looking through his duffel bag for something. Arthur watches curiously, taking his jacket off and hanging it away, looking over his shoulder when Eames makes a sound of victory.

“Birthday present,” Eames says by the way of explanation, handing Arthur a brightly wrapped parcel. “I could wait until tomorrow, but I want to give it to you now, when you actually have the time to enjoy it.”

Arthur tears the wrapping, his curiosity piqued. He can tell it’s a book, and his eyes widen as he pulls the paper away to read the cover.

It’s a thick, hard-cover book with gold lettering, which reads _Of Paradoxes_. Arthur looks up, mouth open in a small _O_ , and Eames smiles at him.

“You were reading it the night I first saw you. You had it open in your lap and it took me a good few minutes to move it out of the way without jostling you awake. Then we started dreaming together and I realised how much you like paradoxes. I didn’t end up stealing your old copy back for you, but I hope you’ll like it anyway.”

“God, Eames,” Arthur breathes, wrapping his arms around the man and kissing him hard. “I love it. I love you.”

“Love you too,” Eames murmurs against Arthur’s lips with a grin, “but I’m hoping that was obvious enough.”

 

•

 

After a day and a half with Eames, Arthur looks utterly relaxed. Dom raises an eyebrow at the way Eames’ hand lingers on Arthur’s shoulder as they meet for brunch in a restaurant and busies himself by looking through his menu.

“I’m guessing that you kept him thoroughly distracted from work,” he says to Eames, who is eyeing Arthur in a way that makes them both wonder why they got out of bed, and how they managed to make it past the shower.

“Oh, he was thoroughly exhausted,” Eames replies absently, eyes not leaving Arthur’s face.

“Distracted,” Arthur corrects. “By all the architecture and museums.”

“That too.”

Dom clears his throat. “Thanks for that. So if we order our food, I can brief you on the job I’ve organised for us. That is, of course, if you’d like to join us, Eames.”

“Love to.”

Dom wonders if he ever watched Mal with the intensity he sees in Eames’ eyes. His chest tightens and he looks away. Arthur, sharp as ever, and now experienced enough to know when Dom is thinking of his wife, turns his head with a frown.

Just like that, Dom thinks in dismay, he’s managed to undo all the good of the past two days.

“So, what’s the job?” Arthur asks once their food has arrived, his tone clipped and professional once again.

If Dom thinks that’s a touch of resentment he sees in Eames’ expression for a split second, he doesn’t doubt that he deserves it. Instead of dwelling on it, he launches into an explanation of their next extraction. Their mark is a police officer who his boss suspects of assisting the mafia. It’s dirty work, but Eames’ rumours boast that Dom and Arthur are the best, and it’s the truth.

“Eames, I’ll let you decide who you’re going to impersonate. I don’t think I need to stress the fact that this is a very dangerous job. If we make it, we’ll be paid well. If we don’t, well…”

“A challenge,” Eames grins. “I’m definitely in.”

Dom nods. “I’ll give you the rest of the information when we’re at our office. And I’ll introduce you to our new architect.”

“Why do you change architects so often?” Eames asks, sipping his tea.

“Have to keep things interesting somehow,” Arthur answers. “Might as well make use of the fact that we’ve got people lining up to build dreams for us.”

Eames nods slowly. He knows Arthur well enough to know that he’s only ever this casual when there’s something to hide. He doesn't push; not just yet.

The architect this time is a tired-looking man in his late twenties, who introduces himself as Raul. He likes to build office complexes with labyrinthine layouts and elevators that barely feel like they’re moving. He’s designed such a place for the first layer of the dream, where he’ll stay while the others go down another level. Their mark, a Giovanni Moretti, has a gambling habit that he usually indulges in an underground gambling den of a bar, but he also makes regular visits to larger casinos and the second layer of the dream will be a hotel with two entire floors of dedicated casino space.

“There’ll be a vault in this level,” Dom says, pacing in front of a whiteboard in their makeshift office. “My job is to get there. Eames, I’m going to need you to make Moretti think of his mafia contact, so the information will be waiting there in that vault. Arthur, you’re the dreamer and this casino will be filled with Moretti’s projections.”

“My preliminary research hasn’t found any records of his subconscious being militarised,” Arthur says.

“But he’s a cop, working with the mafia. He’ll be one paranoid fucker, I’ll guarantee that,” Eames looks at Arthur. “I’d be concerned, if you weren’t the best.”

“Right, so we keep Moretti and by extension, his subconscious, nice and distracted so you have time to break into the vault.” Arthur frowns in thought. “If his subconscious notices you’re poking around, his projections will attack right away. Raul, we’ll need another labyrinth for this level. The vault will be on one of the lower levels, so if the projections get hostile, I’ll need to make them chase me upstairs to draw them away from Dom. If we put the poker tables on the upper level of the casino, and then access stairs to the next floor…”

“Thinking of putting your Penrose stairs in?” Eames asks, already knowing the answer. “Confuse the poor sods when they try to chase us down.”

“Us,” Arthur repeats, sounding both surprised and pleased, but doesn’t comment further. Raul raises an eyebrow, and goes back to sketching his ideas out.

“Right,” Dom nods approvingly. “I think we’ve got the basics covered. We’ll meet here again tomorrow to discuss any new developments. Raul, contact Arthur if you need to ask any questions about the dream levels. Eames, the sooner you decide on who you’re impersonating, the sooner we can start doing the research to flesh it out.”

They part ways, and Eames goes back to Arthur’s apartment with him. Despite his light-hearted nature at other times, work makes Eames get serious and as they sit at the dining table with their tea and coffee, doing their research and bouncing ideas off each other, Arthur feels a little guilty for thinking that despite the long gap of not working with each other, he and Eames plan together much easier than he and Dom.

 

•

 

“It turns out that Moretti has a mistress,” Eames announces at their next meeting, holding up a picture of a young woman. “Marina DeCosta. If I impersonate her and tell Moretti that I’m worried about his safety, that a man’s approached me, he’ll immediately think of this mysterious contact we’re after.”

“I’ve done a background check,” Arthur adds, “she doesn’t have any suspected mafia links, so he’d try and make sure she doesn’t find out about the contact. That information should go straight into the vault for Dom to find.”

Dom nods. “Good. Arthur, how long do you think we’ll need?”

“Ten minutes in the real world,” he replies, and when Raul raises an eyebrow, he adds, “it gives us two hours on the first level. An entire day on the second. We can’t afford to have Moretti realise he’s just lost an hour that he can’t account for. Ten minutes will be easier to get away with.”

“Brilliant as always, Arthur,” Eames declares with a smile, and then turns back to his dossier. “DeCosta works as a waitress in a bar just near the police building. Not the one he gambles at, but he goes there regularly enough for lunch with his colleagues. Getting access to her should be very simple.”

“I want you there today around lunch in case Moretti shows up. Do a bit of observation on the way they interact,” Dom says. “Take Arthur with you. I’ll stay here and go over the plan with Raul again.”

Eames is far too happy to have Arthur with him and goes as far as to call it a _research date_. Arthur rolls his eyes at this, but doesn’t contradict him. Of course, Eames takes their work seriously and spends the majority of is time observing Marina as she waits tables, making sure to engage her in conversation as often as possible.

Moretti arrives with a few colleagues for lunch and Eames takes Arthur by the shoulders, moving him in their booth until he’s sitting directly in front of their mark. He leans in and looks, for all intents and purposes, as though he’s deep in conversation with Arthur, while he watches Moretti.

“Eames—” Arthur says, after some time. “ _Eames_. Do you realise that you’re reciting Shakespeare under your breath?”

“Much Ado About Nothing,” Eames nods, “I have to keep my mouth moving or I’ll look suspicious. It’s either Shakespeare or dirty talk.”

“It’s… kind of having the same effect,” Arthur says, with a straight face only he would be able to manage when admitting something like this.

Eames focuses on Arthur immediately, and gives him a broad grin. “Really? I’ll have to… _explore_ this fact in depth when we have the time. …You know, Moretti keeps looking at his lovely lady friend at every available opportunity. He must have it bad.”

“Well, I can see DeCosta doing the same,” Arthur says in a low voice. “They aren’t very subtle about it. I’d be surprised if his colleagues didn’t at least suspect something.”

“That works in our favour,” Eames replies, looking away from Moretti to focus on Arthur. “The more obvious it is, the more likely it is to have… _certain people_ take advantage of this fact.”

Arthur frowns in thought for a moment and asks, “Are _we_ that obvious?”

“Why, it only takes a _glance_ to see how crazy you are about me,” Eames replies with a grin, but lowers his voice to add, “but on a more serious note? I don’t think Raul’s quite worked it out yet, and this is my lovely post-coital Arthur we’re talking about, all happy and relaxed. The day-after version, who has realised he can actually unwind sometimes. As opposed to the directly-after version, who can’t quite form coherent sentences just yet.”

Arthur whacks him in the arm. “Public place, Eames.”

He only gets a grin in reply as Eames absently rubs his arm. They stay and watch for a little longer before Eames decides that he’s gathered enough information for now. They return to their apartment and Eames hooks himself up to the PASIV to try on Marina’s skin. Arthur gets his laptop out and begins a new document on Marina and her interactions with Moretti, already onto the second page when Eames wakes.

“I’m going to enjoy this one,” he declares, kissing Arthur’s neck.

“You always do, when it involves pretending you’re a woman,” Arthur comments, not looking up from his work but tipping his head to the side to give Eames better access. “What is it you like the best? The fact that you’ve got breasts, or that you’re fucking with someone’s sexuality, even if they don’t know it?”

“Oh darling, don’t make me _choose_ ,” Eames says in mock-horror, and Arthur can feel him grinning against his neck. “It’s the fact that I’m treated so differently as a woman. It’s very interesting. And honestly, after a while, the breasts just kind of get in the way.”

Arthur huffs in amusement. “Right. Well, while you were under, I was compiling this— _fuck_ , Eames. You know I can’t concentrate when you’re doing that.”

Eames bites into Arthur’s neck a little harder this time, and is rewarded with a rough moan. Licking over the bite mark, he smiles. “That can wait. Now tell me, what’s this thing you seem to have for Shakespeare? Because I did quite a bit of theatre as a schoolboy.”

 

•

 

Dom manages to book a meeting with Moretti, posing as a concerned client who has been referred to a talented investigator. They meet in an office that has been rented for this very purpose, set up to look like an accountant’s, and Moretti is quickly knocked out by a sedative mixed into his drink.

“Right, we’ve got half an hour. That should be ample time to finish the job and put some distance between us and Moretti,” Dom says as Arthur hefts the silver case onto the table and pulls out five IV lines. They rearrange the chairs in the office, make sure they’re comfortable, and Arthur sets the timer before depressing the button.

They find themselves standing in an empty meeting room and Raul glances out of the window, into the rest of the office.

“He’s at that desk over there. We need to get him to the secure room so we can put him under again.”

“Leave that to me,” Eames says, glancing at the mirrored panel on one of the office’s cabinets. “…If you gentlemen don’t mind, a girl needs her privacy.”

“Eames…” Arthur looks over his shoulder at what now appears to be Marina. “We were going to save this for the next level—”

“Oh, relax darling,” Eames says, in a husky Italian accent. “If _Marina_ tells him that she has something to talk to him about, he’ll follow her anywhere.”

“Right,” Dom says, understanding. “So then he’ll already be thinking of her being contacted by the mafia before we put him under.”

“So it will be much easier to make him project the information we’re after into that vault,” Arthur finishes, impressed. “Here. This small tranquiliser dart should knock him out without him realising. Can’t have him losing his trust in her. We’ll follow at a safe distance.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll keep him so distracted that he won’t notice anyone but me.”

“You do that,” Arthur does his best to hide the affectionate look in his eyes. “And be safe.”

“Always.”

Eames leaves the room, his disguise perfect to the gentle sway of Marina’s hips as she moves, and then stops in her tracks when Moretti looks up at her.

Arthur can’t hear their conversation from where he is, but he waits until they’ve started walking before he leaves the room with a large folder of papers. He goes unnoticed among the other office workers, but he still focuses on the reassuring weight of the Glock hidden beneath his jacket.

He hears Dom and Raul somewhere behind him and the sound of Marina’s voice somewhere in front of him. He doesn’t look up from his files, walking at a slow pace that keeps Moretti from realising he’s being followed.

“In here,” he finally hears Eames say, and looks up just in time to meet Marina’s gaze as they enter the room.

“Giovanni,” he hears, followed by the gentle smack of lips against lips.

“What are you doing here…?” Moretti asks, his voice trailing off as he is stuck with the dart.

Arthur enters the room to find Eames back in his own skin, pulling a PASIV out of a cupboard.

“Were you jealous?” Eames asks with a light smile at the look in Arthur’s dark eyes.

Instead of replying, Arthur simply turns and kisses him, nipping on his lower lip and moving away to hook Moretti to the PASIV by the time Dom and Raul reach the room.

“You know what to do,” Arthur says as Raul helps him set up. “We shouldn’t be long, and the projections shouldn’t notice anything unusual.”

“But I’m ready just in case,” Raul replies with a nod, taking both of his guns out and placing them on the table. “Shoot anything I see. Got it.”

“I’ll see you two down in the casino, then,” Eames smiles at Arthur and Dom.

“Sweet dreams,” Raul says as he starts the PASIV. “And good luck.”

 

•

 

Moretti is sitting at a poker table in a low-lit room with clouds of smoke hanging in the air, and Eames hovers behind him, forging Marina and playing the part of the concerned girlfriend.

“Someone you know?” Arthur asks from his place opposite Moretti at the table, raising an eyebrow.

“Mar—is something wrong?” Moretti frowns with concern as soon as he sees the wide, hazel eyes brimming with tears.

“I—I need to talk to you. It’s urgent.” Her voice catches and Moretti is immediately on his feet.

The game continues and Arthur and Dom return to their cards, knowing that Eames is running through his planned lines about being approached by a mysterious stranger and asked about things that she doesn’t understand. Arthur clenches his jaw as he folds his cards this round, sensing the way the projections around him tense in reaction to Moretti’s own panic.

The game ends by the time Moretti returns, after telling Marina to go home where she will be safe. Eames joins the new table, replacing Dom, who leaves with the excuse of having to call his children. He ignores the glare Arthur gives him at that, and sets off to find the vault.

Eames cheats, but purposefully loses the next game. Arthur has an impenetrable poker face and wins, to make sure he has Moretti’s attention.

“A drink for my fellow players?” he suggests, when only he, Eames and Moretti remain at the table, and leads the way to the bar. Their conversation is polite and shallow. Moretti is clearly troubled, but neither Arthur nor Eames make mention of it.

“That woman before,” Eames finally says. “She’s absolutely gorgeous. Is she your wife?”

Moretti looks down at his hands and sighs quietly. “No. Unfortunately.”

Eames talks him into telling them the story of how he and Marina had met, and Arthur keeps track of the time. They’ve been talking for half an hour when Arthur’s phone plays its message tone, telling him that Dom has successfully found the information.

He excuses himself from the table, giving Eames a meaningful look before slipping away and climbing the stairs to the next level, where the labyrinth begins. Some projections watch him pass and he steels himself, ignoring them and reminding himself that Dom wouldn’t have been able to break into a high-security vault without causing some kind of disturbance.

He has ten minutes before Eames joins him and they navigate the maze to escape any projections and make their way back downstairs to meet Dom. With a soft sigh, he prepares to wait, happy to have a job without a hitch for once, when he hears an all-too-familiar voice greet him from behind in a French accent.

“Hello, Arthur.”

And Mal shoots him in the stomach.

She walks into his line of sight as he crumples onto the floor, holding the SIG Sauer she’d always favoured. He doesn’t look up at her and she makes a sound of irritation. Arthur curses Dom at the back of his mind for this; for the way his projection of Mal is so close to the way she once was, but with the entirely wrong personality.

“Where is Dom?” she asks.

“Don’t you know?” he replies, his voice shaky, his hands slick and red with blood as he tries to staunch the flow. “He won’t be here to watch you kill me this time. Sorry.”

Mal glares at him and puts her gun away. “Then you can die slowly. I’m going to find my husband.”

Arthur watches her stalk off and swears under his breath. The blood has stained the carpet around him a deep, dark red and he struggles to breathe, to stay alive, just a little longer, waiting for the kick.

Time slowly ticks by and Arthur keeps track of it, of every minute, until he hears familiar foot falls.

“Oh—oh god, no.” Eames sees the blood, then Arthur.

“Calm down, calm down,” Arthur gasps out as Eames kneels beside him.

“Who did this? Was it a projection?” Eames demands, and Arthur knows he can’t find out the truth. Eames doesn’t know about Dom’s projection of Mal, and it needs to stay that way.

“Didn’t see the shooter. Eames, we need to continue with the job. Help me up.”

“Are you mad?” Eames asks, “You won’t be able to stand. God, Arthur, I will end whoever did this.”

“It’s just a dream. Just a projection.”

“And before you know it, you’ll be telling me ‘tis nothing but a flesh wound,” Eames laughs hollowly.

“We’ve watched each other die before,” Arthur murmurs, tasting blood in his mouth.

“Doesn’t get any bloody easier,” Eames replies, cradling Arthur’s head in his hands, “Just hold on, love. The kick’s coming.”

“Not for another twelve minutes.”

Eames bends over, resting his forehead on Arthur’s shoulder with a growl of frustration. That is when Arthur sees Mal again, creeping closer to them, a gun in her hand.

“Eames,” he whispers, hands on the sides of his lover’s face, holding his gaze.

Eames leans into their kiss, ignoring the taste of blood, holding Arthur tightly and shutting his eyes.

There’s a haunted look in Arthur’s eyes when he pulls away and whispers, “I’m sorry.”

Before Eames can ask why, he hears a gunshot and feels himself descend into darkness.

 

•

 

Raul looks up with a frown when Eames stirs and sits up.

“Did something go wrong?”

The frown on Eames’ face is all the answer he needs. Taking the needle out of his wrist, Eames gets to his feet and stands in front of Arthur, who sleeps on peacefully with no indication of the mess he is one level deeper.

“Cobb should have the information we need. We’ll wake them,” Eames decides, leaning over Arthur and placing his hands on the back of his chair. He gives it enough of a push to rock backwards before he stops it with his foot. Arthur wakes, gasping and clutching his stomach. Eames gives him a cold smile. “Good morning. Care to tell me what the _fuck_ that was about?”

Arthur frowns, unhooking himself from the PASIV and pushing Eames out of his way. “ _Forgive me_ for not wanting you to watch me bleed my guts out.”

“Oh, because a simple _turn around, please_ , wouldn’t suffice half as well as a bullet to the head?”

“Eames…” Arthur sounds tired and he turns to Raul. “Wake Dom.”

Raul nods hastily, turning away to give them whatever little privacy they can manage.

Dom sits up and looks at Arthur. “I think I saw—”

Arthur cuts him off with a warning glare and shakes his head subtly.

Dom takes a breath. “I think I saw this mafia contact we’re after. I found the file in the vault. I’ve got his name and location. We’re done here.”

Arthur nods, checking his watch. “Our somnacin doesn’t run out for a while. We’re going to need to resort to other methods to wake up.”

“Wonderful,” Eames mutters, taking his gun out. “Being shot in the head _twice_. Just what I always wanted.”

“Keep Moretti under,” Dom says, getting his own gun out. “We’ll dose him with more of the sedative when we’re topside. He can wake up in a cab thinking that he’s turned down my fictional case, and everything carries on as normal.”

Eames loads his fun and flicks the safety off, giving Arthur a mirthless smile. “Can I shoot you this time, love?”

“Your relationship is kind of fucked up,” Raul comments, and Arthur shoots _him_ first.

 

•

 

Arthur truly hates his imagination. As much as Eames likes to tease him about not having one, it plagues Arthur now to the point where he just wishes the barbs were true. Because right now, it’s the reason he can’t sleep.

Eames’ arm is heavy around his waist as he breathes deeply, and Arthur slowly and carefully slips out of the embrace, out of bed, and picks his boxers up off the floor.

The kettle is loud as he makes himself coffee, but Eames is always a heavy sleeper after sex. Arthur moves to the couch with his mug, sipping as he idly traces the bruise Eames’ grip had left on his hip just a couple of hours earlier.

Every time he shuts his eyes, his imagination assails him with mental images of Eames being tortured by the projection of Mal. Each time, Arthur would be powerless to do anything and Cobb would watch on, doing nothing.

So far, he’s managed to keep Eames from finding out about Mal, but he knows that it’s only a matter of time. Eames already knows that something is wrong—he’s known for a while, now. Arthur just needs to be brave enough to admit it to him.

“What are you doing up at arse o’clock?” Eames mumbles sleepily as he shuffles into the room. “We’ve been through this before. Coffee does not equal sleep.”

“Go back to bed,” Arthur says, despite the fact that he curls against Eames as soon as he sits on the couch.

“There’s a distinct lack of Arthur in our bed,” he murmurs against Arthur’s forehead, before kissing it. “Was the angry sex too angry? Did I yell too much about shooting me?”

“Not any more than I deserve,” Arthur murmurs, linking their hands together.

“And will you tell me the real reason sometime?” Eames asks, his voice quiet and serious.

Arthur hesitates, and then finally nods. “Yeah. Sometime soon.”

“Thank you.”

Placing his empty coffee mug down on the table, Arthur wraps his arms around Eames. They fall asleep there on the couch and even if Arthur startles himself awake from nightmares two more times before sunrise, he knows that it would be much worse if Eames wasn’t with him.

Cobb decides they’re moving again, the next day. This time, they’re leaving Italy and though Cobb never says it, Eames knows that the invitation doesn’t extend to him. He consoles himself with the fact that Raul isn’t invited either, and that Arthur is a touch colder to Cobb today.

Eames decides that it’s been a while since he’s been home to London. He sorely wants to invite Arthur along, but already knows the choice Arthur would make between relaxing with Eames or remaining in his thankless position as what essentially equates to being Cobb’s caretaker.

Arthur sees him off at the airport and Eames watches him patiently, waiting to be told of this dark secret he’s sensed looming over him and Cobb even before he’d joined them for the job. Arthur must know what Eames is waiting for, because he avoids his gaze now and then, clearing his throat uncomfortably.

Eames’ flight is called and they part ways. Arthur still hasn’t told Eames anything, but when he presses a quick kiss to the forger’s lips, he can’t quite bring himself to care all that much.

They don’t speak again until Arthur calls a week later, informing him they’re in Belgium.

“Is that an invitation?” Eames asks, and he hears Arthur laugh bitterly.

“I wish. How are you?”

They exchange pleasantries and Eames talks about visiting his mother, who is always far too happy to see him, He’s just finishing a story about his mother’s two dogs and the neighbour’s cranky cat when Arthur takes a deep breath.

“Eames? Do you have a bit of time? Because there’s something I need to tell you.”

“That sounds wonderfully ominous. Should I be sitting down, too?”

“…That might help.”

Eames frowns. “What is it, Arthur?”

“It’s about Mal.” Arthur pauses for a moment before continuing. “She keeps showing up in our dreams. Cobb keeps projecting her.”

“Well, that’s understandable, isn’t it?” Eames asks. “The man misses his wife. I mean, I used to project you into my dreams when I missed you—”

“This is different,” Arthur actually sounds distressed. Letting out a shaky sigh, he adds, “This projection of Mal… she isn’t _right_.”

“How do you mean?” Eames asks, unsettled by the obvious worry. If Arthur is outwardly concerned about something, he knows it must be serious.

“She’s… the way she must have been after they got out of limbo. Worse, I think. She doesn’t want him to leave her. She’s slowly been making Cobb question reality. He doesn’t think I can see it, but it’s there in his eyes whenever he sees her.”

“Arthur,” Eames says softly, frowning as he rubs his temples. “…Darling, when did you start calling Cobb by his last name? He’s been Dom to you since you first met.”

“Yeah, well…” Arthur mutters, “Things change.”

Eames’ frown deepens and he gets to his feet, suddenly feeling the need to pace. “What did Cobb do?”

“Nothing.” Arthur’s voice is flat. “Absolutely nothing. And maybe that’s the problem. And Mal—she’s…”

“Arthur?”

“She blames me for keeping Cobb here,” he says in a small voice. “Or the projection does. Maybe that means that on a subconscious level, Cobb does too.”

“Darling, no,” Eames murmurs, not even sure if he believes his own words. “Cobb would never blame you.”

“She _tortures_ me, Eames,” Arthur says, his voice cracking.

“ _What_.”

“She makes sure I don’t die. Makes sure it’s slow and painful. And Cobb—he just watches. Hates himself for it, but he _doesn’t do anything_.”

“Are you—” Eames’ voice is rough and it takes him a moment to collect his thoughts. “You’re fucking with me, aren’t you Arthur? Just some—some _really bad_ joke. Haha, very funny?”

“Eames—”

“She fucking shot you in the stomach during that last job, didn’t she? You could have told me—”

“No, Eames. I couldn’t.”

“You _shot me_ so I wouldn’t see her. She was right there, wasn’t she?” he growls in frustration. “How long has this been going on?”

Arthur doesn’t reply immediately. Eames sits down with a huff, deciding that he’s going to need to drink something very alcoholic. Perhaps after he tracks Cobb down and beats the ever-living shit out of him.

“It’s been like this since the start,” Arthur says at length. “Ever since Mal—the _real_ Mal—died.”

“So for the past two months,” Eames concludes in a terrifyingly even voice, “you’ve been tortured by Mal. Bled to death. In front of Cobb. And you’ve done _nothing_ about it. You’ve waited this long to tell _me_ , and you’re happy to just carry on like this.”

“It’s only until we can fix his charges—”

“ _Damn it_ , Arthur. You’re more intelligent than that. Do you really think that someone—someone who can’t bloody do anything while his dead wife goes gallivanting about, fucking up his jobs—do you really think he can _do_ anything about his charges?”

Arthur takes a deep breath and says in a very strained voice, “You are never going to talk about Cobb like that again.”

“Listen to yourself! You’re trying to defend the man when he’s already stretched you to the point where you’re distancing yourself from him! All it took was Mal shooting you in the stomach one too many times—”

“She was going to shoot _you_ ,” Arthur interrupts, his voice and rough and angry. “If it’s _me_ , I don’t care how many times it happens. I can handle it. But you…?”

“And how the hell do you think _I_ feel right now?” Eames asks and sighs, scrubbing at his face. “Come to London, Arthur. Leave Cobb and his fucked up projections. Breath a little. God, everything’s making sense now. How stressed you looked, how _happy_ you were for that day and a half away from Cobb—”

“Eames, I am not abandoning him.” Arthur’s tone is cold.

“You’re just going to hang around and suffer for something that is in no way your fault.”

“ _Yes_ ,” Arthur spits. “If that’s all I can do, then yes. He’s like a brother to me, Eames. More than Phillip ever was. I can’t just leave him.”

“And what am I, then?” Eames asks hollowly. “What do _I_ mean to you, if it doesn’t even matter that the thought of you being tortured on a regular basis—by _Mal_ , for Christ’s sake—makes me feel ill?”

“God, Eames, don’t do this to me. You _know_ I care. I just need to take care of Cobb right now. Once this whole situation gets fixed, I’ll be back. You’ll still be there.”

“Will I, now,” Eames asks, his voice flat. “So nice to know I can just be put up on the shelf to be taken down later and dusted off, Arthur.”

“It’s not like that—” Arthur begins, but Eames’ only reply is the disconnect tone.

 

•

 

“You told Eames,” Cobb says accusingly, when they meet the next day. They’re in a small room Arthur’s hired for them, a street away from their hotel. Cobb paces and runs a hand through his hair. “You told him about Mal—”

“I don’t see how it’s such a big deal,” Arthur says, not even meeting Cobb’s gaze. “Not when you were about to mention seeing her during the job. Besides, she nearly shot him.”

“And I hear she shot you,” Cobb says, and for a moment, he looks truly anguished. “I’m sorry, Arthur.”

“So I’m guessing Eames called you,” Arthur’s gaze is fixed on his cup of poorly made takeaway coffee, and he tries to keep his tone disinterested.

“If you can call it that. He threatened me over the phone, Arthur. Said that if I didn’t get a grip on my wife and stop torturing you—”

“Doesn’t matter what he says,” Arthur interrupts. “You’ve seen Eames angry before.”

“No I haven’t,” Cobb says. “Not like this. He was furious. Damn it Arthur, you had no right—”

“She was going to _shoot him_ , Cobb,” Arthur replies, his voice wavering. “Mal. _Your_ projection of her.”

“You’re blaming me too. I knew it.” Cobb shakes his head. “You’re going to leave to London.”

“Jesus Christ, Cobb, calm down. I’m not going anywhere. I trust you. Eames is just angry, it doesn’t matter.”

Cobb sits heavily in his chair and takes a breath. “It doesn’t matter? Not even to you?”

Arthur’s shoulders slump. “Of course it does. Eames… we’ll work it out next time we see each other.”

“Why don’t you go? Spend a bit more time with him. I’ll stay here, sniff out a job, and give you a call when something comes up.”

Arthur considers it. He imagines spending his time with Eames, dreading a phone call, and never wanting to leave. He shakes his head. “I’ll stay.”

Cobb doesn’t say anything, but the look in his eyes says that he’s relieved.

 

•

 

“I don’t fucking understand you, Arthur.”

The point man sighs, resting his forehead against the cold glass of his window, tightening his grip on his phone. He’s irritated by the fact that he didn’t see this coming.

“Cobb gave you the _choice_ to take a break from him,” Eames continues his rant, “yet, you turn it down. You’re either the most idiotic man I’ve ever known, or a masochist. A very idiotic masochist.”

“I can’t just leave him,” Arthur replies, and by now, he’s repeated it so many times that his voice is toneless. “I owe him too much.”

“And I’m just nothing to you,” Eames says, and adds before Arthur can interrupt, “because that’s exactly how you make me feel. It’s always been about _Cobb_ , who taught you everything. Never mind this idiot Eames, who showed you what dream sharing is. Who realised how badly you wanted to escape your old, dull life. Never mind me, who is stupidly in love with you and just _waiting_ for you to see sense.”

“Eames, I—”

“I can’t take this, Arthur. I really can’t. You’re willingly staying behind, letting Cobb torture you with his subconscious, and ignoring every bit of sense I try to get through that skull of yours.”

Arthur straightens up, recognising the tone in Eames’ voice. He remembers the night in Paris, with Eames packing his belongings into a suitcase and leaving. He’s about to tell Eames to stop, that they’ll talk this out, when the forger continues.

“At times like these, I can understand where your family’s coming from. I can completely sympathise with your brother and father.”

“…What?”

“It’s like there are two different versions of you. There’s Arthur—the brilliant, dedicated son that your family never got to see— _my_ brilliant Arthur, who actually lets himself be happy. But you barely let anybody see that, do you? Instead, we get _this_ Arthur, overworked, unhappy and unwilling to do anything about it.”

“You…” Arthur’s voice is quiet and cold. “You’re siding with my _family_ on this. With Phillip.”

“Yes,” Eames says with a heavy sigh. “Yes I am. Do you remember what he said to you? How you have everything you want right in front of you, but refuse to see it? He was right.”

Arthur struggles to find some way to reply to this. He distantly realises his hands are shaking, but he can’t tell if it’s from anger, or any other of the multitude of emotions crashing through his head, making it ache.

“I’m hanging up now,” he hears himself saying. At the back of his mind, he notes that Eames isn’t protesting.

“Goodbye,” he hears Eames say softly before he snaps his phone shut, the sound echoing in the small room.

They both know this is the end.

 

•

 

If Arthur’s lack of sleep shows the next day, Cobb doesn’t comment. He finds them a job and Arthur throws himself into research. On his lunch break, he goes out and buys himself a new phone with a new number. He throws his old one out, without saving Eames’ number.

He takes two more jobs with Cobb in quick succession. During the second, he is cornered by Mal, who shoots him in the kneecap and then asks him where Eames is. He screams wordlessly, clenching his jaw against the pain, sorely wishing that he could bring himself to shoot her.

Cobb watches on silently, with the same tortured look in his eyes as always. When Arthur’s gaze meets his, Cobb draws his gun and aims a shot right between his eyes.

The pain disappears, along with the rest of the dream. Arthur finds that he doesn’t quite mind dying this way, and then bitterly wonders at the fact that he even _has_ a preferred method of dying.

After this job, Arthur announces that he’s going to spend some time back in L.A. Cobb is only too happy to hear it and sends stuffed animals for the children.

Arthur’s first stop is his apartment. The dust sheets over the furniture look as though they’ve been hastily thrown on, and the place has the faint smell of Eames’ cologne. He must have been here a week or so ago, which reflects the list Arthur still keeps updated at the back of his moleskine. The last destination on the list now, following Los Angeles, is Dubai. Arthur had waited before he had the information double-checked before booking his flight.

But somehow, the discovery that Eames is using their apartment too, comes as a surprise. It shouldn’t, really, because they’d both lived here and in fact, Eames had lived here for longer, after Arthur had left to help Cobb. Still, Arthur thinks as he pulls the cover off the bed and crawls under, it’s strange to imagine Eames sleeping in this bed alone, the way he is doing right now.

He falls asleep quickly, and if he ends up curled up on Eames’ side of the bed, face buried in the pillow, Arthur pretends not to know.

 

•


	5. Part Five.

  
_  
**Part Five.**   
_   
  


  
_(maybe we'll find better days.)_   


Inception, Eames thinks. Inception with _Arthur_ , of all people, as a team member. This should be interesting.

He stares out of the small window as the plane lands. From Mombasa, he’d gone straight to Sydney to start observing Peter Browning. He has all the information he needs now, and Cobb had requested for him to join the rest of the team in Paris.

There is a very good reason that Eames has taken a week-long detour to delay him from meeting with the rest of the team, and that reason is Arthur.

Arthur, who he hasn’t seen for more than a year, now. Arthur, who leaves traces of his presence around the apartment they still share, but never at the same time.

Arthur, who is waiting for him in the driver’s seat of a black car in the airport pick-up area.

“Did you miss me so much that you felt the need to pick me up?” Eames greets him as he gets into the front passenger seat, hiding how tense he feels with his cheerful tone. Arthur can probably see right through it, but that’s okay. Eames has already noticed that Arthur’s grip on his steering wheel is so tight that his knuckles are white.

“Don’t flatter yourself. I’m here because it’d be a pain if our forger went and got themselves killed between the airport and our workspace.”

“Give me a little credit, Arthur—”

“I’d rather not.”

Eames sighs. “I see you haven’t changed. I’ll admit, though, it takes an _extremely_ loyal person to agree to something like inception if they don’t believe it’s possible.”

“If it weren’t possible, you wouldn’t be here,” Arthur replies, not looking away from the road. “I didn’t think it was, but I’m willing to be proven wrong. Especially if it means Cobb gets to go home.”

“This is still all about him,” Eames shakes his head in disbelief.

“It’s always been about him,” Arthur replies, glancing across at Eames when they stop at a light. “I don’t follow him around the world and hope Mal doesn’t screw up our jobs because it’s my idea of a good time. Cobb needs help, and if being a point man for an inception job helps him get back home, I’ll do it.”

Eames nods, and feels the silence creep up around them. They don’t talk about the fact that they’re still sharing that apartment in L.A., or that sitting here, beside each other in a car, has them both feeling far too tense.

“Conned a man a while ago,” Eames says, just so that he’s talking instead of sitting in silence. “Had impeccable taste in suits, like yourself. Except he’d wear the most hideous ties.”

“Mhmm.” Arthur doesn’t look away from the road, or show any indication that he is actually listening.

“Stole a few million from him. Not including the two cars; an Aston and a Bentley.” The second part is a lie, but apparently not outrageous enough to make Arthur pay attention.

Eames is silent in thought for a moment, looking out of the passenger-side window and rubbing his chin. They’re approaching a red light when he says, “I had an affair with your brother last time I was in L.A.”

Arthur brakes so hard that the tires screech in protest. “ _What_.”

Eames grins gleefully. “Just checking if you were listening.”

Arthur rolls his eyes with exasperation, but Eames doesn’t see a trace of anger in his expression. “Fuck you, Eames.”

When the light turns green, Arthur accelerates hard and Eames is jolted back in his seat. He smiles to himself and lets Arthur drive in silence.

“Cobb said you knew where to find me,” Eames says casually, once they’re navigating their way through the smaller, residential streets, watching Arthur from the corner of his eye. “Apparently you didn’t even need to think about it.”

“I’m a point man. It’s what I do,” Arthur replies simply, though he says it a little too forcefully for it to be the whole truth.

Eames leans back in his seat, trying to ignore the knot of nervous excitement in his stomach at the thought of Arthur keeping tabs on him, as closely as _he_ does for Arthur.

“Of course.”

 

•

 

They all have their own individual spaces in the workshop they’re operating out of. Ariadne, the young and eager new architect, has a large area dedicated to the scale models she’s already begun to build, with cardboard towers stretching up and held together by pins and glue. Yusuf has set up a small, makeshift lab reminiscent of the ones he’d used when he was fresh out of university and had first met Eames.

There are a multitude of desks and Eames easily picks the one cluttered with files and empty takeaway coffee cups to be Arthur’s. There’s an empty desk beside his, but Eames walks past it, placing his bag on another one, further back to the room.

Saito reclines in one of the lounge chairs near the PASIV, looking far more regal than should be possible in a messy workshop. Cobb looks stressed, and as though he hasn’t had a proper night’s sleep in years. Eames wouldn’t be surprised if that were truly the case.

Arthur stands by Ariadne’s desk, and while Eames can’t make out what he’s saying, he can hear the low rumble of his voice and the way he uses his hands to help illustrate his point. Ariadne listens on, attentive and enraptured. Eames’ lips quirk into a small smirk of empathy, and that’s when he realises that Ariadne has a _crush_. Arthur continues talking, unsurprisingly oblivious, and Eames feels sorry for the poor girl.

He looks up to find Cobb watching him, eyes narrowed in thought, and clears his throat, pulling his notes out of his bag and announcing a small meeting.

The flight from Sydney had been a long one and Eames has pages and pages of notes written in his personal cipher, exploring the different ways they can make this inception work. The plan he’s decided on is completely different to what he’s tried before, and he explains it to them, making modifications when new ideas come up.

He offers to take them under, after they’ve got the basis of the idea sorted out, to show them his copy of Browning. Cobb and Yusuf stay awake while the rest hook themselves up to the PASIV. Arthur is an obvious choice because he’s done his own extensive research on Browning and seen enough video recordings of the man to pick out any flaws, while Ariadne and Saito are merely curious.

They find themselves in a comfortably sized apartment, with a full-length mirror in the middle of the lounge room.

“Help yourselves to the tea,” Eames says, indicating the kitchen without looking. His reflection watches him out of the mirror and he changes slowly, letting himself grow into his new skin.

“His voice?” Arthur asks, authoritative, and lacking the awe in both Ariadne and Saito’s expressions.

“You’re kidding me, right?” Eames speaks in Browning’s drawl. “You think I’d get that wrong?”

“You’ve always been thorough in your forgeries,” Arthur says, his tone flat to cover up the compliment. “Good to know that’s still the case. Walk around the room.”

Eames obeys, mimicking Browning perfectly. Ariadne claps and Eames bows with a flourish that is all himself, and Arthur rolls his eyes, looking out of the window.

It’s a very simple window, but that’s where its beauty lies. It’s wide, and swings open, inexplicably reminding Arthur of Paris. He stops, and does a double-take of the apartment. The window, the coffee table, the kitchen, even the layout… they’re all familiar to him. He realises that this is a combination of the places they’d lived, from the first apartment they’d shared in Paris to the one in L.A. He notices that Eames has stopped talking to Ariadne just a moment before the apartment starts shifting. It starts with the windows and tables, and then the wallpaper, all changing to different styles that Arthur doesn’t recognise.

“Stop that,” he mutters, not looking up at Eames. “There might not be any projections right now, but if you keep changing things, you’ll find them.”

In a blink, the apartment changes to the way it was, and Arthur nods in approval.

“It’s easier to find my way around when I have a rough idea of the layout.”

For one brief moment, Eames’ disguise falls away and he smiles at Arthur. The point man is looking away, but Ariadne catches it, watching on in curiosity.

 

•

 

Eames decides that he likes Ariadne. She’s full of wide-eyed wonder at dream sharing, and soaks things up like a sponge. It reminds him of the way Arthur had once been, and so of course it only makes sense that Arthur’s made her his own personal project. He checks on her regularly, taking any excuse to launch into detailed explanations of concepts she needs help understanding. Anybody else would simply roll their eyes at his fastidious nature, but she holds on to every piece of information he gives her, combining it with own ideas and making something new. She’s wonderfully open-minded and clearly talented, and this makes it far too easy for Eames to make friends with her.

She giggles when he pulls faces at Arthur’s back, ignoring the mutters of, “you’re only encouraging him,” and they’re both good enough at their jobs to get away with the teasing they manage in between.

“Do you have to insist on corrupting Ariadne?” Arthur asks Eames, when they’re both packing up at the end of the day. Ariadne is in a class and Cobb is at his desk. Saito and Yusuf have already left.

“Corrupting? Me? I’d never do such a thing.” Eames pretends to be scandalised by the very suggestion. “Besides, I see the way _you’re_ corrupting her, making sure she gets every little detail right. Throwing a Penrose staircase in there.”

“Forgive me for trying to make sure she’s actually good at what she does,” Arthur says. “She’s a good architect. I think she’d make a good permanent addition to the team.”

“What team?” Eames asks, pretending he isn’t bothered by the knowledge that he wouldn’t be on it. “If we do this right and Cobb gets home to his family, do you really think he’s going to want to continue putting his neck on the line and jeopardise everything he has? There won’t _be_ any team, Arthur.”

“That may be the case,” Arthur allows with a small nod, “but even if Cobb leaves dream sharing, I don’t plan to. I’ll need a team anyway.”

Eames raises his eyebrows. “Making plans for the future that don’t include Cobb? I’m impressed, Arthur. You’ve grown up.”

Arthur narrows his eyes. “I’m so glad you approve, Eames.”

“No need to be sarcastic. You’re just sore over that kick, aren’t you?”

“I know it may come as a surprise to you, Eames, but some of us actually like to act _professionally_ when we’re at work.”

“Oh, but it’s so easy to ruffle your feathers,” Eames replies with a self-indulgent smile. “You ought to take yourself a little less seriously, Arthur.”

“I’ll do that as soon as you start taking yourself a little more seriously,” Arthur replies, turning away and slinging his satchel over his shoulder. “Good night.”

“Good night, Arthur,” Eames murmurs, hanging back to watch him leave before picking up his own bag and making his way home.

It isn’t until he gets to the small apartment he’s renting that he realises his cheeks hurt from grinning like an absolute idiot. He and Arthur don’t hate each other, and this fact alone somehow makes Eames’ day immeasurably better.

He tries not to dwell on this fact for too long.

 

•

 

Arthur comes into work the next morning with breakfast for the entire team. Ariadne is delighted and proclaims that he is the greatest person in the history of forever, and only becomes even more excitable as she drinks the large cup of coffee he’d gotten her. The rest of the team is grateful and Eames looks up from his dossier when Arthur places a paper bag of croissants on his desk.

It reminds him for a brief moment of Los Angeles, of the last time they were in Paris together, and if the look in Arthur’s eyes are anything to go by, he isn’t the only one. They look away from each other and Eames goes back to his work without a word. He doesn’t even reach for the croissant until Arthur’s walked away and is in deep conversation with Yusuf about their variation of the somnacin compound.

He only feels bad for not thanking Arthur for breakfast when he’s done eating and sees the takeaway cup of Earl Grey that’s also sitting on his desk. It’s a little too late to say anything now, though, with Yusuf announcing that he’s going to run more tests with their compound, Cobb and Arthur going through newspaper articles, and Ariadne calling Eames over to her workspace so they can go over the finer details of his dream’s level.

“There needs to be snow,” he decides, rubbing his chin as he looks at the sketches of the medical facility. “Just a little added motivation to get into the building as soon as possible. The labyrinth you’ve designed for the interior should take enough time to navigate as it is. You’re extremely good at building those, by the way.”

Ariadne flushes with pride. “I’m glad you think so.”

“I have a suggestion, though, just to make things easier should the need arise. Have you designed a ventilation system for the building? Because if you make them wide enough, we can have them function as a shortcut through the maze.”

It takes them until late afternoon to add the shortcut into the design and then go under to smooth everything out. In real-world time, it’s a quarter past four when they’re done. Eames gets up and stretches, looking around at the rest of the team as he winds the lines back into the PASIV case. His gaze settles on Arthur, his chin resting on his hand as he reads something on his laptop screen, and Eames forces himself to turn away. He can’t sit still and finally suggests going for a walk to Ariadne, who gladly agrees. It’s an amazing relief to no longer be in the same space as Arthur, and he tries not to mull over this fact as they walk through the cobblestone streets.

Of course, trying not to think of Arthur has never worked very well for him.

They end up in a café, a good twenty minute walk away from the workshop, and Eames spontaneously decides that he’s buying coffee for everyone on the team. He and Ariadne spend a good ten minutes trying to pick out what kinds of coffee would suit individual members of their team—“a latte for Cobb?” Ariadne asks; “I don’t think so,” Eames replies with a mischievous smirk, “something without milk. Black and bitter, like his past.”—and Eames finally orders.

They haven’t theorised over what Arthur would like, and Eames has a reason for that. He doesn’t skip a beat after ordering for the rest of the team and says, “caffè macchiato with a double shot of espresso, one sugar, extra hot, thank you.”

It’s a much more detailed order than any of the others and Ariadne raises an eyebrow at this. Eames simply smiles in return and says, “Arthur. The man has very _specific_ tastes.”

“Extra hot?” Ariadne smiles a little. “What, are you planning on playing a prank to see what happens to Arthur’s composure when he burns his tongue?”

Eames laughs at this and shakes his head. “I do like the way your mind works, but I’m afraid not. It’s just that he’s got his head stuck in research at the moment. He won’t get to the coffee until he’s done, and there’s no fun in drinking cold coffee now, is there?”

Ariadne looks surprised and impressed. “You… know him pretty well, then.”

“We’ve… known each other for a while. I can barely make sense of what goes on in the man’s head, so I make a habit of pouncing on whatever I _can_.”

“I think you know him the best out of everyone on the team,” Ariadne persists. “Maybe even better than Cobb. Otherwise, you wouldn’t get under his skin as easily, right?”

“Has anybody told you that you’re incredibly sharp?”

“It’s come up. But don’t worry, I don’t mind repetition.”

Eames chuckles, collecting their coffees in a fold-out cardboard tray. “And so incredibly modest too, Ariadne.”

They walk back to the workshop and Eames thinks, not for the first time, that he sees a very different side of Ariadne to what Arthur or Cobb do. With him, she is more relaxed, unconsciously more honest. He knows that it has a lot to do with the way he presents himself; relaxed and affable, because it’s just part of his job to make people open up to him without quite realising it, and it’s part of his personality to read secrets that are none of his business.

Except that the secret Ariadne thinks he doesn’t know is about Arthur, and Eames wonders if that makes it his business after all.

“Here you go,” he says to her when they reach the door of the workshop, holding the tray towards her. “The one on the extreme left is yours, and Arthur’s is the one beside it. Wouldn’t want him under-caffeinated now, right?”

She smiles and takes the two cups, walking to Arthur’s desk. He looks up from his work for long enough to thank her, and Eames watches from the door as this seems to make Ariadne’s day. She wanders off to her own desk to sip at her chai latte, and Eames passes the rest of the coffee around, much to the appreciation of the others.

Sitting back at his desk, he glances over at Ariadne, who still looks like she would be hovering off the ground if she could. She’s really falling, Eames thinks to himself grimly, and wonders what the chances are of Arthur having started to like girls all of a sudden.

The worst part is that he isn’t quite sure which outcome he’d prefer, because he isn’t at all sure how _he_ feels about the man.

Arthur is still focused on his research when Ariadne has to leave for the day, but Eames is still there, doing some extra research on Browning; watching interviews and reading news articles, when Arthur finally shuts his laptop and starts packing his things away.

Yusuf is satisfied with the compound he’s produced for them now, so he’s gone home, too. Cobb never seems to leave the workshop, and Saito is in a conference call at the back of the building, so it’s only really Arthur and Eames there, ignoring each other. Eames continues rereading his newspaper clippings and Arthur picks up his bag, turns to the door, and pauses.

“Eames.”

“Hm?” Eames realises that he’s just read the same sentence three times.

“Thanks for the coffee.”

This catches Eames’ attention and his head snaps up. There’s the hint of a smile on Arthur’s lips, before he adds, “good night,” and walks away.

Eames drops the article he’s holding onto his desk and swears softly under his breath.

He doesn’t care who he may be fooling, because he isn’t fooling himself. He knows exactly how he feels about Arthur.

There’s only one way this can go, Eames realises with a growing sense of uneasiness, and that is _badly_.

 

•

 

“What’s going on with you and Arthur?” Cobb asks him, while the rest of the team is busy.

Eames raises an eyebrow. “If you want to know, why don’t you ask him?”

“He won’t tell me.”

“And you think I will.”

“If this is something that is going to affect the team—affect the _job_ —then it’s better to have it out in the open.”

“Ah. Like your issues with Mal, I take it? Because you’re clearly warning everybody about her before you go under with them, right?” Eames gives Cobb a cold smile. “If there was anything going on between Arthur and I… well frankly, you’d be the last person I’d tell, because you’ve been _such_ a big help in the past. But there isn’t, so kindly piss off.”

“But you wish there was.”

“ _Piss off_ , Cobb,” Eames says, loud enough to make Arthur look up. Ignoring him, Eames puts his hands in his pockets and walks to Yusuf’s work station, giving the beakers and conical flasks a sullen look.

“Pining,” Yusuf mutters under his breath, and snickers when Eames smacks the back of his head.

Saito drops by halfway through the day, reporting that Maurice Fischer’s poor health has taken a sharp turn from bad to worse. The man has three days, tops, and Eames can’t help but to feel like one of the vultures, watching and waiting for him to die.

The team get back into their work with renewed vigour and by the end of the day, they have the entire plan worked out to perfection. They go through the practice runs of what they can without the actual mark, and Saito takes them all out to dinner.

It’s an expensive restaurant and Eames looks around, cataloguing all of the valuable decorations in the place. A glance at Arthur says that he’s doing the same, and Eames grins into his glass of whiskey. Ariadne, who is sitting between them, notices and raises her eyebrows, but Eames simply shakes his head, taking his new poker chip out of his pocket and toying with it.

“Hey, is that your totem?” Ariadne asks him, her eyes curious as always. ”I thought you had to be a bit more secretive about those things?”

“Ah, well you see, I _used_ to have a poker chip as my totem. Then I realised that, well, if I couldn’t slip into somebody else’s skin, then that’s a good enough indication that I’m awake, isn’t it?”

“That logic is flawed,” Arthur speaks up.

“Thank you, Arthur.” Eames flashes him a smile with no sincerity. “Perhaps some people are grounded enough in reality that a totem seems a little unnecessary.”

Cobb frowns at this. “But you can never know for sure—”

“Yes, but then you can never know _anything_ for sure now, can you?” The smile he gives Cobb is even more transparently fake.

“…Do you have a problem with Cobb?” Ariadne asks him later, when they’re at a bar and the group’s been whittled down to just her, Eames, and Arthur who is unwilling to leave the two of them alone together with alcohol.

“You could say that,” Eames says with a shrug.

“Is it because of Mal?”

“You’ve met Mal?”

“First proper time she tried dreaming,” Arthur joins in, and despite his loyalties to Dom, Eames can tell that even he isn’t pleased.

“Christ, that soon? It’s getting worse then, isn’t it?” Eames looks at Arthur, who frowns at his glass of scotch and doesn’t reply.

“This job better get him back home to his kids,” Ariadne says, her concern clear on her face.

“But will that help, I wonder?” Eames asks, not looking away from Arthur. “Who’s to say that being home with his kids will solve the problem? The man’s _obsessed_ isn’t he? Nothing’s going to change unless he lets go.”

“Letting go isn’t that easy, Eames,” Arthur says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You can’t just snap your fingers and forget. Even when you know that you really should.”

“I know, Arthur,” Eames says softly, and Ariadne listens on, unaware of the fact that neither of them are talking about Cobb anymore. “I know.”

 

•

 

They’re like magnets of opposing poles, drawn together no matter what. Or perhaps, Eames thinks, they’re just like pendulums, falling into sync once again, for that brief moment before they lose it.

Either way, he decides that it doesn’t matter. Arthur softens towards him the following day, which means less bickering with any actual heat, and more bickering for the sole purpose of getting him flustered. Arthur even approaches him more willingly, and by lunch time, they’re almost being friendly with each other. Cobb notices, and perhaps he says something to Arthur about it, because there are a few minutes’ worth of tension that afternoon. He doesn’t talk to Eames about it, though, and this is a very welcome fact.

Yusuf and Ariadne notice the difference too; Yusuf raises his eyebrows at Eames but doesn’t comment, and Ariadne asks them if they’d somehow grown up in between now and last night’s drinks.

Eames honestly doesn’t know what it is, because it’s _Arthur_ treating him differently, and he doesn’t really do anything but respond a little nicer to reflect this change. It’s always been up to Arthur, he thinks, but it thrills him all the same, to have them standing so close to each other that they can feel each other’s warmth.

There’s a light rain, late that afternoon when they’re leaving, and Arthur offers Eames a lift instead of having to walk through it. Naturally, Eames accepts, and it feels just as natural that Arthur parks his car and follows him up into the small apartment. Eames makes two cups of tea and they settle on his couch, sipping and not speaking.

The comfortable silence reminds him again of being here in Paris, nearly three years ago, and sharing his life with Arthur.

“It’s almost terrifying, the way the memories just refuse to fade,” Arthur murmurs, as he blows the steam from his cup. “I’ve forgotten so many things about being Arthur Wolff, all these small, unimportant details from that old life.”

“But…?” Eames prompts cautiously, watching Arthur from the corner of his eyes.

“But I remember everything about how things used to be before, Eames. The way you never take more than fifteen minutes to eat a home-cooked meal. Where you’d hide your guns so they’d be out of sight but easy to reach. I even remember—I remember the way you feel when you’re asleep next to me.”

Eames lets out a long breath, pretending he’s blowing at his own tea. When he speaks, though, his voice has the slightest uncertainty to it.

“You realise what you’re asking for. This hasn’t ended well for us—what, twice already?”

Arthur places his cup down on the table and looks directly at Eames. “If the inception works and Cobb goes home? If I don’t need to follow him around and worry that he can’t tell dreams from reality any more?”

“Arthur,” Eames says softly, “it doesn’t matter. Something else is going to come up. We just… don’t stay in sync. We’re not like those pendulums on the wall of your apartment—”

“ _Our_ apartment, Eames. We’ve both been living in it.”

“Please. Don’t make this difficult—”

“ _You’re_ the one doing that. Fuck, I can tell that you want this as much as I do.”

Eames shuts his eyes and lets out a low sigh. “I do. I wish we could make it work. But I know it won’t.”

Arthur slides closer to Eames on the couch. “You can never be sure of anything. You said it yourself.”

“But you can come pretty damn close,” Eames replies in a strained voice. “Since when have you listened to anything I say, anyway?”

“Since you started making _sense_. You can’t let this go either, Eames. You said it yourself.”

“This is unhealthy,” Eames mutters, turning away from Arthur. “This is almost as bad as what Cobb is doing. Holding onto something that isn’t going to end well.”

“Do you care?”

“I wish I did, Arthur,” Eames takes hold of the front of Arthur’s shirt and pulls him close. “God, I wish I could. But I’ve always wanted you more than should be sensible.”

“Eames…” Arthur says, smiling, and it’s a beautiful sight. Eames hushes him with a finger on his lips.

“I’ll warn you now. I’m not going to allow this to become too serious, now. Not until the job is complete. Not until Cobb’s charges are cleared, he’s back home, and you no longer need to worry about him.”

“That sounds fair,” Arthur murmurs, his lips moving against Eames’ finger.

“Come here.”

Arthur’s lips are soft, but his kisses are hard and demanding. Eames holds onto him and kisses back, running a hand through the slicked-back hair and letting it fall in messy strands around Arthur’s eyes.

“Christ, you’re beautiful,” he whispers, without intending to voice the thought. Arthur smiles, and Eames kisses his neck, his mind spinning with the realisation of just how badly he wants this.

He reminds himself that they really do need to put this on hold until the job is complete and they actually have the time to talk everything through, but Arthur is climbing into his lap and Eames’ hands are on his hips, pulling him closer instead of pushing him away.

“ _Arthur_ ,” he lets out a rough moan as they grind against each other, already half-hard, and Arthur smirks at him, wrapping his arms around Eames’ shoulders.

He doesn’t stand a chance. At the very least, Eames knows when to stop resisting. “Come on, then,” he growls, picking Arthur up and carrying him to the bed.

They fuck hard and loudly, not caring if the neighbours hear, not caring about the marks they leave on each other’s skin, not caring about anything but each other and this moment they have together.

When they’re lying in each other’s arms later that night, drifting off to sleep, Eames presses a kiss to Arthur’s shoulder.

“You have no idea how much I want to end every day like this, for as long as we both possibly can.”

He thinks Arthur is asleep, but just as he drifts off, he hears the quiet, “Yes I do.”

The next morning, Eames is pleased to find that Arthur’s still there, lying in bed beside him. He kisses Arthur’s forehead in greeting before slipping out of bed to shower and make breakfast. There’s still a good two hours until they need to be at work and they take their time eating, watching the morning news and not letting each other out of arm’s reach. When Arthur finally does leave, to change at his apartment before meeting him at work, they share a long kiss at the door before Eames sends him off with a slap to the arse. Arthur’s glare is ineffective, especially when he’s trying not to smile.

Eames leans against the doorjamb with a sigh, watching Arthur leave and wondering how he lets himself fall so hard every time.

They arrive at work separately and don’t acknowledge each other beyond nodding to each other in greeting. Somehow, there’s still something that gives them away to Cobb.

“Just be careful, alright?” he mutters to Arthur, who shrugs him off, and says the same to Eames, who informs that it’s none of his business.

Neither of them need to be told, and Cobb knows this. He can see it in Eames’ guarded expression whenever he looks at Arthur, and the lines of tension in Arthur’s shoulders when they’re standing beside each other. He might not be as talented in reading other people as Eames, but he knows Arthur well, and has known Eames for a long time. He can tell, in the brief glances they give each other, just how badly they want things to work out this time. He does, too.

 

•

 

Eames thanks the fact that he is an extremely good actor, because it’s the only thing that keeps him treating Arthur the same as before; a little playful, a little mocking, and not the slightest bit affectionate. He forces himself to stay clear of the pet names, even when they’re alone together, because that would mean acknowledging just how deep they already are.

It doesn’t help that while Cobb’s figured it out and Yusuf had raised his eyebrows at Eames and looked at Arthur in a way that says he has too, Ariadne is oblivious, just as Arthur is oblivious to her crush on him. It’s another reason Eames tries to keep his distance from Arthur, though that fails the moment they’re alone together.

Ariadne is in class again, Cobb is at the back of the workshop and Saito and Yusuf have already left. All it takes is for Arthur to glance at him, and Eames is leaning over his desk, pulling him into a bruising kiss.

Instead of pushing him away, Arthur holds him close, moaning softly as their tongues slide against each other.

“Self restraint can be such a bitch,” Eames says with a wry grin, stroking Arthur’s hair and making sure not to mess it out of its style. “We’d better get decent before Ariadne returns from class.”

“You? Decent?”

“Very bloody funny,” Eames murmurs, biting Arthur’s neck through his collar. “Before we get you decent, I’m going to find out just how _indecent_ I can get you with all your clothes on.”

“Eames,” Arthur’s protest is half-hearted at best. “Not when we’re at work—”

“Oh, Arthur, do relax. It’s not as though I plan to suck you off through your pants.” Eames grins when this makes Arthur shiver. “Though that could very easily be arranged later.”

“Tonight?” Arthur asks, swallowing hard.

“Not tonight. We need to focus on the job, Arthur. But afterwards? Most definitely.”

“The job didn’t stop you last night,” Arthur points out quietly.

“Well, it’s never easy to say no to you. Especially when you’re already in my lap.” Eames winks, standing up and straightening his jacket. “So I’m going to pretend that I can at least refuse you _sometimes_ , even if you’re more tempting than anybody ever should be.”

“You’re going?”

Eames nods, his hands in his pockets. “Say hello to Ariadne for me when she comes back, will you? And try not to stress her out too much.”

“Good night,” Arthur calls as he leaves, and it’s because of the guilt Eames feels, just thinking of Ariadne watching Arthur with adoration clear in her eyes, that helps him walk away, when all he really wants to do is whisk Arthur away for some time alone.

The night is terribly uninteresting, and it’s even worse when Eames finds himself imagining how different it would be if Arthur were with him. He wouldn’t be sitting in front of the television and eating reheated leftovers while watching bad dramas, for one. And he wouldn’t be _missing_ Arthur, who he’d seen just two hours ago.

He sighs, rubbing his eyes and just wishing that they’d get this job over with, so that he can deal with what comes after.

He gets his wish, because just as he’s getting ready for bed, he gets a text message from Arthur.

 _Fischer senior just died. We’ve got to move. We’re meeting at the workshop ASAP. See you soon._

 

•

 

Saito organises a private flight for the entire team down to Sydney immediately. They pack up the workshop, making sure not to leave any traces of their presence behind, gather their belongings and head off to do what they’ve been preparing for all this time.

Arthur and Eames take the seats beside each other on the flight, and begin to realise that this might have been a mistake when they’re four hours into the flight and, despite their best efforts, they can’t help but allow the tiniest bit of affection to creep into the way they treat each other. Eames touches Arthur more than strictly necessary, he smiles more often, and when they’re speaking, he leans in just that tiny bit, with an expression that makes it seem as though Arthur is the only person he’s aware of.

Of course, Arthur’s own actions speak volumes of how he feels about Eames; he leans against the man as they sit beside each other, allows each touch to linger, and returns every one of Eames’ smiles.

Ariadne, however, doesn’t notice these things as much as she notices Eames. Nine hours into the flight, Arthur’s fallen asleep reading a book and Eames is pacing the cabin, not wanting to sit still.

He’s staring out of the window beside the emergency exit, arms folded and tapping his foot when Ariadne joins him.

“You like Arthur, don’t you?”

Eames turns to look at her. Instead of insulting her intelligence by making her point out the difference between liking someone and _liking_ someone, he simply sighs.

He’s good at witty comebacks, innuendo, and spinning lies on the spot that sound entirely plausible. He doesn’t want to lie to Ariadne, but he doubts she wants to hear the truth.

“Is it obvious?” he asks, instead, looking out of the window.

“Kind of. I started to notice it even before we went on that coffee run, but after that… yeah.” She smiles and folds her arms like he is. “You know, I don’t really mind. If you told me before, I would’ve had someone to ramble to. I can’t be the only one who appreciates that sweater vest.”

Eames lets out a deep chuckle. “That’s the truth.”

“You know,” she says, her tone light, “If he likes guys, I guess I can’t really help it. And if he does, I hope he likes you.”

Eames smiles convincingly, but there’s no sincerity behind it. _He does_ , he thinks to himself, _and I think he does_.

“And if he likes girls,” he replies, “he’d be stupid not to realise that you’re quite the catch.”

Ariadne laughs, flattered and pleased. Eames tries to ignore how much he just wants to apologise to her for something that isn’t even his fault. He returns to his seat and she stays at the window. Arthur wakes when he feels Eames sits down and quirks his lips in a sleepy smile. Eames’ expression softens and he gives Arthur’s hand a brief squeeze. Neither of them notice Ariadne watching them with a knowing look in her eyes.

 

•

 

It’s a sunny day in Sydney when they land, but Eames is more focused on his notes than the weather. They’ve planned this to perfection and have run each other through the entire procedure so many times that it’s simply a matter of _doing_ it. This doesn’t stop Eames from flicking through his files, visualising everything and trying not to let his eagerness show. His expression is set in his usual calm and disinterested mask, but the way he jiggles his knee gives him away.

“Excited, Eames?” Ariadne asks, and the laughter in her voice is forgivable because the quirk of her lips says that she is, too. “You haven’t been sitting still since—well, getting on the plane. You’re either really excited or you really need to pee.”

“Eames couldn’t sit still if his life depended on it,” Arthur comments and then, before Eames can even turn to him, adds, “okay fine, you _have_. But I’m pretty sure it’s the only situation you’ve ever managed it.”

Even Eames has to admit that this is true.

“But Ariadne’s right. You’re really looking forward to this.”

“Of course I am,” Eames says. “We’re performing _inception_ , Arthur, and this time, it’s actually going to work. What’s not to be excited about?”

Everyone on the team can appreciate this fact, and Eames watches them all in the first class lounge, a day later, as they wait to board. Arthur flips through his moleskine, scribbling notes here and there, and Ariadne sits next to him, looking worried as she watches Cobb. Eames can guess that the concern has something to do with Mal, but he doesn’t bring it up. Cobb himself looks stressed as he stands by the window, speaking to Saito, no doubt discussing the outcome of the job.

The only one of them that looks at ease is Yusuf, and that probably has something to do with all of the complimentary champagne he’s downing. Not that Eames can blame him; he’s seen the hidden den of dream addicts—he can understand Yusuf’s reservations perfectly well.

He doesn’t stop tapping his foot as he waits for the boarding call, and it’s a relief when they finally stand, gathering their bags and presenting their boarding passes. They can only move forward from here, and Eames feels the wonderfully familiar thrill of anticipation run through him.

They’re all in the mindset for work, now, and the calm facades quickly fall away once Fischer’s been put to sleep by a particularly strong sedative. They hook themselves up, nod tersely to each other, and fall asleep.

But they are not prepared for what they wake up to.

It’s war zone. They’re already tense, and this isn’t helped at all by the rain, by the fact that Fischer’s projections are shooting at them, or the sudden appearance of a freight train. All Eames can hear over the gunfire and the blood pounding in his ears is Arthur shouting—at him, _for_ him, it doesn’t matter—and his instincts to duck and survive give way to his training and to his experience of fighting off projections, back to back with Arthur, over the years. They’ve always been a good team, he thinks, feeling the tiniest bit of fondness through the panic and the stress.

Of course, the panic and the stress only get worse when they find out that there are only two outcomes to this job; success or Limbo. Saito, the source of their income and—perhaps more importantly, Eames concedes—Cobb’s last hope, is headed decidedly towards the latter, and Arthur is blaming himself.

He never says it—he only snaps at Cobb, and then snaps a little more—but Eames doesn’t need words to know Arthur’s thoughts.

He knows better than to actually mention it himself, and so he gives Arthur his best placating look, all the power of _this isn’t your fault_ without a single word. Arthur is still tense, but less so. Eames tries for light-hearted comments, but he’s far too tense himself. The best he can manage is another crack at Arthur’s imagination.

The _darling_ that slips out of his mouth is entirely accidental. Perhaps it’s what makes Arthur calm down, or perhaps that’s the result of the grenade launcher making sure they have the clearance to get out of the workshop, but either way, Eames finds that suddenly, he’s the one struggling underneath his mask of calm and trying not to think too hard about what he’s just said and what it means.

Not that he’s ever learned to make his thoughts shut up when he’d like them to; he knows that it doesn’t matter what the outcome of this job is—he’s mad about Arthur and no amount of reminding himself that he needs to be _careful_ with him is going to stop this.

At least it seems this sentiment is returned, Eames thinks when he is another level down and wearing the skin of a beautiful blonde. He can feel Arthur’s gaze on him as his heels click against the tiled floor, and takes a moment to look up and wink.

If Arthur leans over him much more than truly necessary as he hooks Eames up to the PASIV in room 528 of his dreamed up hotel, neither of them complain. And Eames certainly has no intention of protesting when Arthur takes his wrist in both hands, the touch lingering for a moment longer than truly necessary, before he feels the somnacin being pumped into his system.

 _Go to sleep, Mr. Eames_.

Eames goes to sleep.

 

•

 

They’re awake, the job is over, and Eames has never seen Arthur so outwardly panicked. He paces the first class cabin, raking his fingers through his hair, managing to look terrified and furious at the same time.

“Calm down, now,” Eames murmurs, placing a hand on Arthur’s shoulder to still him. Arthur sighs, but doesn’t protest when Eames pulls him close. He shuts his eyes and leans into the touch, his back to Eames’ chest, for a brief moment before he straightens up and walks back to where Yusuf and Ariadne are sitting, with the PASIV and the others, who are still asleep.

“We’ll unhook them from the machine,” Yusuf decides, with the authority of someone who has a good understanding of the way this works. “It will stop the somnacin compound from being pumped into their system, so they’ll have a better chance of escaping Limbo.”

 _A better chance_ , Arthur thinks, uncomfortable with the fact that there is no guarantee that Cob will escape Limbo successfully. His expression barely changes, but Eames can read it anyway, placing a comforting hand on Arthur’s back once again.

And again, Arthur leans into the touch like he needs it. Eames rubs soothing circles into his back, unable to bring himself to care if the others notice. “Fischer’s going to wake once you get him off the PASIV. How much longer will he be out with the other sedative that Cobb slipped into that drink?”

“A few more hours,” Yusuf says, getting up and unhooking Cobb and Saito. “We won’t need to worry about him for a while. All we need to do is wait for Cobb to find Saito.”

“They’ll be out soon enough,” Ariadne says with a conviction that Eames envies. Not even Arthur is this confident that everything will go well, but there really is nothing to do but wait.

There’s no sign of improvement, even by the time Fischer wakes, disoriented and thoughtful. Eames notices the tension in the way Arthur sits, but they’re all staying in their seats now and there’s nothing he can do about it.

He doesn’t have a very clear view of Cobb from where he sits, directly behind him, but Eames finds himself listening carefully for any signs of the man waking up. This isn’t solely for Arthur’s sake; he already has the satisfaction of knowing their inception had been successful—he’d seen enough on the third level of the dream to be sure of it—but he wants Cobb to wake. He wants Saito to follow through on their arrangement, not because it will get Cobb off Arthur’s back and out of his way, but because he knows that deep down, beyond all the issues that have risen between them over the years, he has a deep respect for the man.

Despite his projection of Mal, despite the way Arthur has always followed him without question, Eames knows that he’s been in the business of dream-sharing for years, and the only team that has ever felt like home has, of course, had Arthur in it, but has had Cobb for even longer than that. He knows that when he’d brought Arthur into the business, he’d chosen the Cobbs for a very good reason that had barely anything to do with the fact that they needed a point man and everything to do with the fact that they had always been the best.

For a moment, he misses Mal with an intensity he hasn’t felt since her funeral, and he shuts his eyes, willing for it to pass. She would know what to do—she would be just as convinced as Ariadne that Cobb will be fine—and the thought eases his mind. He opens his eyes to find Arthur looking at him, giving him a small smile when their eyes meet.

God, Eames thinks, he just wants this to be over and for everything to be okay. He just wants to be on the ground in Los Angeles so that he can have some desperately needed alone time with Arthur. Every passing moment only intensifies this feeling.

When Cobb and Saito finally do wake, it is almost anticlimactic; as though there’s no great importance to the fact that they’ve escaped Limbo, that Saito is on the phone with his contacts, that they’ve _done it_ and Cobb will finally be a free man.

They cannot celebrate openly, because Fischer is right there and they need to remain as innocuous as possible, but Eames watches Arthur smile, the tension disappearing from his posture immediately, and thinks that, well, that’s almost just as good.

It’s obvious that the entire team is relieved to touch down in LAX, and they all pass through immigration without a hitch. Not for Cobb, with his charges cleared, and not even for Eames or Arthur, who both use false identities purely out of habit.

They both watch Fischer, Cobb and then the rest of the team leave the baggage claim terminal, and Arthur wheels his trolley over to where Eames stands.

“There’s this old apartment,” he says as casually as he can, “it’s a pretty nice place that belongs to these people I know. Except one of them is an idiot who never actually appreciates what he’s got—”

“And the other happens to be an arsehole who’s a little too proud for his own good, and never learned to share,” Eames adds.

There’s a brief flash of a dimple in Arthur’s cheek.

“Yeah, maybe. And—you know, I just happen to have a key to this apartment on me.”

“Well, fuck me,” Eames grins. “Because so do I, and I was _just_ thinking it’d be a shame to go to such a nice, big place all by myself.”

Arthur smiles wide this time, and brushes his hand against Eames’ before gripping the handle of his baggage trolley.

“Let’s go home, Eames.”

 

•

 

They have a lot to talk about and they both know it, but the moment they walk into their apartment, their bags lie forgotten by the door as Arthur grabs Eames by the front of his shirt and leads the way to the bedroom.

“I was trying not to think of this through the rest of that goddamn flight,” Arthur says, his mouth open against Eames’, straddling his lap and already grinding against him. “I want to fuck you until we’re both spent and you’re hoarse from screaming for me.”

Eames shivers with pleasure at the very thought. With a smirk, he presses kisses along Arthur’s jaw. “And here I thought I’d suck you off, because I know how much you like these pretty lips around your cock.”

“Fuck, Eames,” Arthur moans, undoing his pants. “Never said we can’t do both.”

“That’s the spirit,” Eames grins, undressing himself.

By the time they’re done with each other, they barely have the energy to wipe themselves off before falling asleep in each other’s arms.

Eames wakes an hour later, slipping out of bed and into the kitchen, digging out his tea and Arthur’s coffee, setting the kettle to boil. By the time he’s done, Arthur is awake and has moved to the couch and Eames joins him there with their mugs.

“You know,” Arthur says, putting his empty mug down on the table beside Eames’, “You called me _darling_.”

“Did I?” Eames asks with a small smile, pulling Arthur into his arms.

“Mm. First level of the Fischer job. You told me to dream a little bigger,” Arthur murmurs, resting his head back against Eames’ shoulder.

“And then you managed to drop us in zero gravity. I’m proud of you.”

Arthur’s lips curve upward at the compliment. “Wasn’t my point.”

“Oh?”

Arthur turns his head to look at Eames. “You’ve got this habit of calling me _darling_ right before we end up getting together. That first time after we fucked up that job, then in that restaurant where Phillip saw us, and then this time, during the job.”

Eames laughs softly, shaking his head. “It’s not exactly some kind of magic word, Arthur.”

“Well it’s always felt like you’re assenting to something we both want,” Arthur murmurs, “Like you’re deciding that we’re actually going to do this.”

“Interesting,” Eames hums in thought. “You know, I’d always thought _you_ were the one calling the shots in this relationship.”

Arthur snorts quietly. “We really do need to talk things through, don’t we?”

“Communicating? In a relationship? What a novel concept,” Eames grins. “Come on, let’s get dressed and get some… lunch, or dinner, or whatever it is that you eat at four-thirty. And then we can talk.”

They go to a small café nearby and sit towards the back with their food. Arthur picks at his salad, and Eames eats chips, examining them one at a time before biting into them.

“You know,” Eames finally says, “since we’re talking about who did what during the Fischer job: I saw you kiss Ariadne on the second level.”

Arthur doesn’t bother denying it. He shrugs and spears a cherry tomato with his fork. “With the Mr. Charles ploy on top of everything else, the risks were high. We needed a distraction.”

Eames bites into another chip. “And that was all it was.”

“Of course. It meant nothing.”

“You think Ariadne knows that?”

“She… of course she would. She must know we’re in a relationship. I can’t say we were all that subtle about it on the flight when Dom was still in Limbo.”

“He’s Dom again now, hm?” Eames smiles, allowing himself to be temporarily distracted. “I’m glad.”

Arthur, on the other hand, pursues his point. “Ariadne _has_ to know by now.”

“Arthur,” Eames murmurs affectionately. “Honestly? Even _I’m_ not sure we’re in a relationship right now—no, before you argue, listen to me. I don’t know how long this is going to last for, this time. Maybe you’ll keep me around for a week. Maybe we’ll fuck for longer. I don’t know, Arthur, because for all I know, something might come up tomorrow and you’ll decide I’m not all that important—”

“Is that what you think?” Arthur asks, but instead of sounding angry, he’s quiet and thoughtful.

“Let me start at the beginning. In Paris, when the Cobbs asked you to move here with them, you didn’t even tell me.”

“I didn’t end up _moving_ , Eames…”

“Doesn’t matter. What bothered me was that they asked you assuming that whatever you did, _we’d_ do it together, but you didn’t seem to think the same.”

“I couldn’t just ask you to move away with me. I couldn’t just assume you’d want to change your life to suit me.”

“We may have owned separate apartments at the time, Arthur, but we were essentially living together. It wouldn’t have been an unreasonable assumption to make.”

“You said it yourself, Eames. You don’t like staying in one place too long.”

“That may be true,” Eames admits with a small nod. Arthur’s shoulders slump in defeat and Eames looks up, a look of fierce determination in his blue-green eyes. “I may not like staying in one place for too long, but I know I’d rather have your company while we move from place to place. Damn it, Arthur, I want this to work, and if that means settling in one place, it will be a small price to pay.”

Arthur is silent in thought for a torturously long time before he finally says, “An apartment in every major city we work in.”

“…Sorry?”

“We’ve got our apartment here, and I’ve got one we can share in Paris. We might want to look into Sydney, Mombasa if you want—”

“Arthur,” Eames interrupts, “what the _hell_ are you talking about?”

“Apartments, Eames,” Arthur says, slowing down this time. “We’re going to need them if we’re planning on moving from one place to another. I’m pretty sure we both have the experience to know that finding a place to stay in the last minute can be an absolute bitch.”

Eames laughs. “Is that your way of asking me out, Arthur?”

“Yes.” Arthur grins. “But you can hardly talk. Your idea of introducing yourself to someone you’re interested in is by kidnapping them and then breaking into their dreams. I wonder sometimes, if you’re a brilliant, if misguided, genius and actually managed to incept me one layer deep in that first dream.”

“And what would I have made you believe?”

“That there’s nothing I want more in the world than to be kissing those goddamn _beautiful_ lips of yours.”

Eames laughs loud enough to catch the attention of other patrons in the café.

“Oh, darling,” he murmurs, leaning across their table. “I don’t need to be in a _dream_ to convince you.”

When Eames kisses him, right there in the café, filled with other customers that are resolutely looking away from them, Arthur has to admit that this is entirely true.

 

•

 

They visit Dom the next day, and Arthur buys stuffed animals for the children on the way, purely out of habit. Eames makes the selection; a sparkly purple unicorn for Phillipa and an absurdly cute dragon for James. The children are thrilled, and Phillipa announces that she’s going to show off the coin tricks she’s learned since Eames first taught her. This earns him a reproachful look from Dom, which doesn’t stay in place for more than five seconds before he is impressed by just how good she is.

“She learned from the best,” Eames winks and Arthur shakes his head with a small smile.

“Just as long as you teach her to put the coins _back_ ,” Dom says, amused.

They sit down for coffee while the children play outside, and Eames leans back in his chair, nodding in their direction. “Well, they definitely look happy to have you home.”

Dom grins, “Yeah, well I’m pretty happy too. And by the way, I noticed that the two of you came here together.”

Arthur shrugs casually, but a grin creeps across his face and his cheeks dimple. “Yeah, well…”

“Couldn’t keep his hands off me,” Eames says, and Arthur kicks him under the table.

“I’m glad you’re finally thinking about yourself,” Dom says honestly, “I know I wasn’t the greatest person to deal with, and I wouldn’t be here now without you, Arthur, but I’m sure Eames will agree with me when I say that you’ve earned the right to be a little selfish from now on. Think about yourself, and about what _you_ want to do.”

Eames hums in agreement and Arthur looks between them and sighs.

“You’re forcing me into a vacation, aren’t you? Fine.”

“That’s the spirit,” Eames says, clapping Arthur on the shoulder and mouthing a quick _thank you_ to Dom, who simply nods.

“Are you sure you’re going to be okay?” Arthur raises his eyebrows at Dom. “I mean, I know you’re back home and all, but if Mal—”

“I don’t think I’ll be seeing her any more,” Dom says with a cautious smile. “I think that when I went down to Limbo, I let her go. I’ll still miss her—I’ll always miss her—but I’ll remember her the way she deserves to be remembered. Not as some twisted form of my own guilt.”

Arthur nods solemnly and Eames does his best to sound casual when he says, “Just try getting some sleep without using a PASIV, eh?”

Dom gives him a rueful smile. “Nothing escapes your attention, does it?”

Arthur opens his mouth, ready to rebuke Dom for this—and for never telling him—but Eames covers the hand he has on the table with his own, thumb stroking over the warm skin, and it’s enough to calm him down.

“Just make sure you don’t lose yourself,” he finally says, his tone just a little harder than normal. “The kids need you _here_.”

“I know that, Arthur,” Dom says gently, “I’ll be fine. And I don’t want to hear from you for at least a good three months unless it’s a social call.”

“ _Three months_ ,” Eames says disapprovingly. “That’s a little short, considering.”

“This is Arthur we’re talking about. Baby steps.”

“I’m right here, thank you.” Arthur sighs, and then adds, “Fine. I— _we_ have plans anyway.”

“Good. So, stay for dinner, and then go enjoy yourselves. And try keep each other out of trouble. Eames, I’m looking at you.”

“Yes sir, Mr. Cobb.” Eames says, giving him a mock salute and a shit-eating grin.

 

•

 

They don’t linger in Los Angeles for long, to avoid unwanted attention from Fischer, and because Arthur is never comfortable spending too long anywhere that he might be recognised as a Wolff.

So they move to Paris, because of all the places they’ve been, it somehow still feels the most like _home_. Arthur’s apartment easily fits them both, not that it matters very much for the first week, when they barely leave the bed.

When they finally reach the point in their renewed relationship where they can spend more than five minutes in the same room without jumping each other, Arthur suggests that they visit Ariadne. University classes have resumed, and so they go to visit Miles to find her sitting in his classroom, speaking of dream architecture with a tone of pure elation. She follows her professor’s gaze over her shoulder and lets out a cry of delight, running up the stairs to hug them both in greeting. She isn’t the slightest bit awkward with Arthur, Eames notes, and this puts him a little at ease.

She insists on taking them around the campus and then to her favourite café just nearby. They follow eagerly, pretending that it is all new to them, and end up in a booth at what was once Mal’s favourite coffeehouse. Eames sees the way Arthur’s shoulder tense and then slowly relax as he forces himself to ignore this fact.

“So you’re living here now?” she asks them excitedly over coffee and bagels. “That’s so great. I’ll have someone to talk to about dreaming when I want to. I can kind of tell that Miles isn’t a big fan of it.”

Understandable, when it cost him his daughter, Eames thinks, but he doesn’t say it aloud. He can tell the same thought runs through Arthur’s mind, and finds his hand under the table, giving it a gentle squeeze.

“Uh, Ariadne,” Arthur blurts out, so suddenly that all three of them are taken aback. He grimaces at his own inelegance and continues, “I just… wanted to say something, about the second layer of the—”

“Oh, you’re talking about the kiss,” she say bluntly. Arthur flushes, Eames snorts, and she ignores them both as she continues, “Don’t worry about it. I kind of suspected it before, but after the job was over, I could kind of tell that—well, you’re here _together_ , aren’t you? That says enough.”

Arthur smiles, and Eames isn’t sure what melts his heart more; the dimples or the way Arthur squeezes his hand in return.

Ariadne’s classes are done for the day and she doesn’t have too much homework yet, so they spend the rest of the afternoon together. Eames buys a baguette, insisting that they stop by a pond to feed the ducks. Arthur and Ariadne sit on a bench, watching as Eames gets his shoes wet and his fingers nipped.

“Bloody hell, do you not know what patience is!”

Ariadne snickers and then nudges Arthur with her elbow. “You know, he really likes you.”

Arthur thinks that yes, he knows, and he’s amazed by just how much, but he simply replies with, “Oh?”

“When we were planning out the job, he could tell that I kind of had this crush on you.”

Arthur frowns. “He didn’t tell me—”

“Of course he didn’t. Eames isn’t the kind of guy who would go blurting secrets out.”

“He’s a thief, Ariadne. A liar, a cheat, a forger. He’d sell people out without batting an eyelid. I’m pretty sure he did that to one of his old teams.”

“They probably deserved it,” Ariadne shrugs, and he’s amazed by her faith in the man. “I know Eames. You know him even better. He’s a nice guy, or you wouldn’t bother. I mean look at him right now, feeding ducks and not caring that they keep biting his fingers.”

“That says less about his kind-hearted nature and more about his lack of intelligence. Oh, for god’s sake— _Eames_! Maybe if you make the pieces bigger, they won’t _bite_ you.”

“You’re a love, Arthur!” Eames waves, acknowledging the advice and tearing off larger chunks. Arthur turns back to see Ariadne grinning at him.

“You’re _adorable_ together. And like I said before—he knew I liked you, and he liked you himself, but he was still nice to me. Eames let _you_ decide what you wanted to do instead of being all possessive. Not often you see anyone mature enough to do that.”

“Oh, please don’t put _Eames_ and _mature_ in the same sentence. It’s a logical paradox.”

“And we all know how much you love your paradoxes, don’t we now?” Eames asks, joining them at the bench and dropping a kiss to the top of Arthur’s head. “The ducks send their regards.”

They get to their feet. The sun is beginning to set and they part ways at the university. Ariadne says that this is her last semester here before she does her post-grad in the States, and that she is not above bullying them into visiting on a regular basis.

They send her off with another round of hugs, and Eames takes Arthur’s hand, holding it the entire way home. Arthur pulls Eames into a slow, passionate kiss the moment they’re through the door and they both relax against each other, deciding that this is the kind of life they could get used to.

 

•

 

They take small jobs, with just the two of them, because they’re both in too deep to simply take a break from dream sharing, and Eames knows that he would be a hypocrite to deny Arthur his fix of the thrill when he, too, needs it almost like breathing.

The work gives them a good routine; they keep their jobs a secret from Ariadne so she can focus on her degree in the real world, and they hardly need more than a week to plan and successfully execute a job. They quickly rediscover their inclination to stay up late and between finishing work and falling into bed with each other, they sit in the spare room that Arthur has converted into his study, where they talk and swap stories as Arthur works on his clocks once again.

“I like this one,” Eames says, looking over Arthur’s shoulder, and they’re not sitting in his study this time. “It might even be my favourite.”

“Just because it’s got the same design as your pocket watch,” Arthur grins, and then grins wider when Eames presses a kiss to the back of his neck.

“I’m allowed to be biased. And I like the pendulum on this one.”

Arthur finishes working on it and holds it up for examination, “I guess this one goes on the wall too.”

“Allow me,” Eames says, and hangs it in its own little space on the wall. He starts the pendulum and stands back, smiling in approval at the entire wall of pendulum clocks, all swinging at different intervals, filling the small room with their soft ticking.

“You know, I thought that when you bought me a copy of _Of Paradoxes_ that one time, I’d already gotten the best present ever. And then you buy me a watchmaker’s shop, complete with its own staff.”

Eames shrugs casually, but there’s no hiding the fact that he’s beaming. “Well, you know what it’s like. Perform the first successful inception for a billionaire who isn’t afraid to throw his money around, and you end up with a couple million just lying around.”

“…Eames?”

“Yes, Arthur.”

Arthur gives him the most brilliant smile Eames has ever seen; all teeth and dimples and pure happiness. “I love you.”

“Likewise, my dear,” Eames chuckles, kissing him softly. “And you’re welcome.”

“Do you realise,” Arthur says quietly, wrapping his arms around Eames, “back before, when I was Arthur Wolff and I had all the money I ever needed without even _trying_ , I was never half as happy as I’ve been since you decided to kidnap me.”

Eames grins. “You have the worst case of Stockholm syndrome in the entire world.”

“I might believe that if you were even capable of _pretending_ you could stay away from me,” Arthur murmurs with a small smile.

“You’ve got me,” Eames sighs, sliding his hands down to give Arthur’s arse a gentle squeeze. “I’m mad about you.”

“We’ve known each other for… what, not even four years,” Arthur says, “And somehow, you’ve still managed to be responsible for everything _good_ in my life. You gave me a way to escape my old life, you introduced me to shared dreaming, I… have _you_ , and all the apartments scattered across the world, and now you’ve given me an actual _reason_ to sit down and make watches. Nobody has ever done anything like this for me. Are you sure you’re real?”

“By all means,” Eames indicates Arthur’s workbench. “Roll your die. See for yourself.”

Arthur does, and Eames turns away out of courtesy. The red plastic clatters against the wooden desk once, twice, and he pockets it, satisfied.

“Well?”

Arthur grins, his hands in his pockets. He’s never loved the number four more than he does right now.

“Well, I’m convinced.”

“To be fair, Arthur,” Eames says, folding his arms across his chest with an amused look. “I do have my drawbacks.”

“Like the fact that you can _never_ stop fidgeting,” Arthur says, with a pointed look at the way Eames shifts his weight from one foot to the other.

“I was thinking more in terms of the kleptomania and the constant desire to move from one place to another,” Eames grins, “but okay.”

They both look around the shop all set up and ready to be opened tomorrow. Eames has hired an entire team of watchmakers to run the shop and none of them have ever met either of them. The amount they are paid to sell and maintain Arthur’s clocks, however, is a good enough incentive to keep their questions to themselves.

“You know, it’s a real pity,” Eames finally says with a sigh. “I won’t be able to steal the best clocks in town for you any more, because they’ll already be _yours_.”

This makes Arthur laugh and he reaches out, finding Eames’ hand and pulling him closer.

Well, Mr. Eames,” he murmurs against those wonderfully full lips that he’s never been able to look at without wanting to kiss. “If you really do need to give into your kleptomaniac urges sometime soon, we’re due to visit Dom in L.A. next week, and there’s a still a nice restaurant with a vase we need to steal.”

“Oh, Arthur,” Eames chuckles, kissing him hard. “You certainly know how to make a thief happy.”

“Just you,” Arthur replies, so quietly that Eames very nearly misses it. He hides his smile against Arthur’s hair and even if he doesn’t need a totem, he finds himself reaching into his pocket and running his fingers along the edge of the poker chip he’s never really gotten around to taking out of his pocket. The touch is familiar and reassuring, like Arthur’s, and he doesn’t need anything more to tell him that this is real, not a dream, and robbing the Wolff manor had quite possibly been the best idea he’s had in his entire life.

 

•


	6. Epilogue

It sits on their coffee table; an elegant production of blown glass, hand-painted, and gilt with a gold that shines softly in the light. It’s hand-made and there are absolutely no air bubbles visible, speaking volumes of the brilliant technique and painstaking care that must have gone into its production.

“You know,” Eames says, sitting on the couch just in front of the table, elbows on his knees and cheeks in his hands. “I quite like it, from up close.”

Arthur, still running high on the adrenaline of another steal, is pacing their lounge room. He looks over and pauses, taking the vase in for a moment before saying, “It’s beautiful.”

“It would look lovely in our Tokyo apartment, wouldn’t it?”

Arthur raises an eyebrow. “I thought you were going to sell it.”

“Well, yes, but we haven’t promised the vase to anybody just yet, so we can change our minds, can’t we? Think about it, sitting on that rosewood cabinet you bought for the lounge room.”

“You’re serious about this.”

“Unless you mind, of course,” Eames says with a small smile. “After all, if we did sell it, you’d get half—”

“I don’t care about the money, Eames,” Arthur interrupts, but he’s grinning. “But since when do you actually hold onto anything you’ve stolen?”

Sitting back in the couch, Eames gives Arthur a brilliant smile. “Well, I still have you, don’t I?”

With a smirk, Arthur crosses the room and straddles Eames. “Yeah, you do.”

They sink back against the couch together, and Eames runs his hands over Arthur’s back, his smile growing even wider. “What is it about stealing things that gets you all hot and bothered? I don’t think you’ve ever been like this when we steal information right out someone’s mind.”

“It’s not just the act of stealing, Eames, it’s also the fact that we get away with it. When we plan an extraction well enough, we can make sure we don’t leave any traces behind, so the mark never knows that we were there, in their head. It’s different when expensive things suddenly go missing.”

“Of course,” Eames says, gently pulling Arthur’s head back by his hair and placing hot kisses down his bared throat. “Only you would be turned on by the thought of doing something difficult.”

“ _Successfully_ doing something difficult,” Arthur breathes, his eyes fluttering shut. “And the knowledge that we’re getting away with it because we’ve planned it all out so neatly.”

“Like clockwork,” Eames murmurs between kisses, and Arthur laughs.

“Let’s go to bed, Mr. Eames.”

“Mm,” Eames ogles Arthur’s arse on the way to their bedroom, “you only call me _Mr._ Eames when you want to do especially dirty things to me.”

“Or when I’m annoyed,” Arthur adds, sitting on the edge of the bed and pulling Eames on top of him. “Or frustrated, or angry.”

“Hmm. My point still stands.”

They undress each other slowly and Arthur rolls them over so he’s on top of Eames, with a smirk spreading across his lips.

“Oh, I like it when you look at me like that,” Eames whispers, his voice husky and alluring. Arthur shivers in pleasure, rocking their hips against each other and enjoying the rough moan it draws from the forger. He does it again, and Eames’ hands settle on his sides this time, holding him still to grind right back. Their cocks are hot and hard against each other, and Arthur glances down at them, swearing in a low, breathless voice at the bead of precome forming on Eames’ erection. He takes hold of it, pumping it once, twice, and Eames arches up into the touch, his mouth open as he grunts softly.

“I’m going to fuck you, Eames,” Arthur hears himself say, though he isn’t quite sure how he’s managing coherent sentences with a beautiful sight like this in front of him, Eames’ body twisting as he jerks up into Arthur’s hand. His mouth is dry and his head pounds with _want, want, want_. “I—I’m going to make sure you feel it for the rest of the goddamn week—damn it, Eames, how the fuck can you be _real_?”

“Certainly not something _you’d_ imagine up,” Eames says with a wink, and Arthur kisses him with more teeth than tongue. He bites right back, nipping on Arthur’s lips before his mouth falls open with a moan at the feeling of two slicked fingers sliding into him. Arthur’s lips move down to Eames’ muscled chest while his fingers stretch him open and they’re both already panting by the time Arthur decides Eames is finally ready, which is met with a _fuck, yes, finally_.

Arthur presses himself all the way into Eames, stopping only when he’s fully sheathed, with Eames’ knees over his shoulders. Eames watches Arthur’s expression in wonder; his eyes nearly shut, his mouth hanging open, his every breath loud and shaky, and thinks as he does every time, that he is unbelievably lucky to be the only one who sees this side of Arthur, with his unkempt hair, sweat-slick body and the _sweetest_ sounds escaping his throat.

“Eames,” he gasps, moving slowly at first and then thrusting harder. “ _Eames_.”

His own breath hitches every time Arthur slams into him, and Eames can hear it—he’s fairly sure it’s loud enough that Arthur hears it too. This time, Arthur is playing fast and dirty; he knows exactly where Eames’ prostate is, and hasn’t missed it from the very first thrust. The forger knows that he won’t last for very long, but he doesn’t mind when it just means he can return the favour sooner.

Then, they’re finally coming; Eames first with a loud moan, tightening around Arthur who follows just another thrust later. They pull apart and Arthur throws his condom out before he’s pulled back into bed, so Eames can nuzzle into him and kiss him with a loud smack of lips.

“Oh the dirty… _dirty_ things I’m going to do to you,” he pants against Arthur’s forehead. “Just as soon as we get our breath back.”

Arthur huffs quietly as he grins. “First, a nap.”

Before Eames can even respond, Arthur rolls onto his side and tucks himself against his lover, shutting his eyes. Eames would complain about having to wait before he can fuck Arthur with his tongue until he’s begging to just _come already_ , except…

Well, except that he’s really, _stupidly_ in love with the lethal, brilliant, masterful man in bed beside him, and it’s not just the sex, it’s _everything_. Even the way he lets out a deep sigh just as his body fully relaxes and he falls asleep.

They’re woken later by the sound of Arthur’s phone.

“Pick it up,” Arthur groans against Eames’ chest, blinking his eyes open and deciding that he’s definitely not going to move from where he is.

“S’your bloody phone,” Eames grumbles, but reaches over to the bedside table to pick it up and glance at the screen. He hands it to Arthur immediately. “Cobb.”

“Hello?” Arthur says into the phone, sitting up. Eames sighs and puts his head in Arthur’s lap, placing open-mouthed kisses across his stomach.

“No, you’re—not interrupting anything,” Arthur pushes ineffectually at Eames’ head. “What’s up, are you— _oh_.”

Eames looks up at the way Arthur’s tone suddenly turns flat. His expression doesn’t volunteer anything beyond the fact that he’s unhappy, and Eames frowns, sitting up and listening to Arthur’s side of the conversation.

“Yes I know it’s been three months—I was under the impression that it was _my_ vacation, not yours—”

“—Yeah, so there _have_ been a few jobs. Nothing big. Just listen, Dom—”

“—I don’t care if Saito fucking buys _America_ for you. Your kids—”

Finally, Arthur sighs wearily and glances at Eames, who knows the next part is for his benefit. “Right. Another corporate espionage job, but this time, we’ll take it slow because it reduces the risk. Four months to gather information and do our most thorough security infiltration yet.”

Eames leans forward and his breath ghosts over Arthur’s lips as he speaks into the phone. “I do hope you’ll be needing a forger on this team, because otherwise, you aren’t getting your point man.”

Arthur doesn’t even protest to this. Dom clearly says something that takes Arthur by surprise, because he pulls his phone away, puts it on speaker, and says, “Repeat that.”

“Hey, Eames. I was under the impression the two of you were a package deal now anyway. Especially considering how long this job’s going to last. You’ve already been doing jobs together anyway, right?

“And I suppose this will be in L.A.?” Eames asks, “Right where Arthur could be recognised by someone who knows the Wolffs?”

“I’m pretty sure Phillip would keep it from getting out, if it did happen,” Arthur says. “If he knows what’s good for him. Not that the need should arise. We’ll be careful.”

“I thought you were yelling at me for wanting to take another job,” Dom says, his tone light and teasing.

“You know what it’s like,” Eames replies smirking at Arthur. “Dream sharing gets addictive. And it’s always good to have something to do between all the fantastic shagging.”

“I did not need to know that,” Dom says, sounding as embarrassed as Arthur looks. “…Just give me a call when you guys are here and we’ll discuss the job in more detail.”

“Give us a day or so,” Arthur glances at the clock on the wall, already making plans. Eames notices with approval that unlike before, he slipping into work mode doesn’t make him tense up. He is still warm and pliant under Eames’ hands and Cobb speaks, taking them both by surprise.

“You know, Mal always said the two of you would end up being the most formidable couple in the world of dream sharing. If she could see you now, she’d be so happy.”

Arthur shuts his eyes and smiles, and Eames places gentle kisses on both his eyelids before taking the phone from his hand. “See you soon, Cobb.”

He hangs up and Arthur looks at him, “Package deal, huh?”

“The most formidable couple in the world of dream sharing.” Eames grins. “At least it makes sure you don’t get whisked away for a job that keeps us apart for months on end. I think I’d miss you too much if we had to do that again.”

Arthur’s lips quirk upwards into a smile. Before—before inception, before Mal’s death and everything in between—perhaps Arthur would simply have shrugged it off and pretend that it wouldn’t bother him just the same.

Now, however, he simply takes Eames’ face into his hands and pulls him close so their foreheads are resting against each other.

“Me too,” he admits quietly. “So I guess you’re stuck with me, Mr. Eames.”

Eames chuckles and presses a kiss to Arthur’s lips. “Good, because I’m not going anywhere.”

Arthur smiles, shutting his eyes. _They’re having a moment_ , he realises, until Eames then continues to say, “Well, I guess I _am_ going somewhere, but I’m taking you with me and that’s the important bit, isn’t it?”

This, Arthur decides with a quiet laugh, is better. Better than anything he could have imagined, or wanted. Better than anything else in the entire world, and he strokes Eames’ lower lip with his thumb.

“Yes. Yes it is.”

 

x


End file.
